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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213129">Morphology</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elementalist/pseuds/Elementalist'>Elementalist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Also tasteful fade-to-black spicy scenes, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Friends to Lovers, Guard Keith (Voltron), Hanahaki Disease, I FORGOT A TAG, I should probably mention that HAHAA, M/M, OH MAN!! How could I forgotten!, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Prince Lance (Voltron), Royalty, True Love's Kiss, as one would expect from a fantasy au, pretty much it's 50k of two dumb boys pining and struggling against their social classes, there's also a good dash of saving each other, this is an entirely self-indulgent fic that I jammed every single trope I loved into</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:34:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>49,983</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213129</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elementalist/pseuds/Elementalist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance's fingers fold around his wrist, and suddenly, Keith is stumbling after him, drawn to the fountain’s marble edge.</p><p>“Why don’t you see for yourself?”</p><p>Lance's hand flutters away.</p><p>The flush of warmth crawling up Keith’s arm does not.</p><p>Later that night, while he keeps his post outside Lance’s chambers, Keith can’t recall how Lance pulls the water from the fountain, if it’s the way he moves his hands or the sweet things he whispers to it that does it. </p><p>All he remembers is the way the sunlight breaks apart across the water, and how it lights up Lance’s smile in gold.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>When a sudden, life-threatening illness befalls Prince Lance, it's up to his childhood friend and guard, Keith, to find a cure. </p><p>Sometimes, however, distance doesn't make the heart grow fonder at all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>248</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Veins</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Out of all the opulence the gardens holds--its dense rose bushes bowing under the press of summer sun, the valleys of timid violets and sea lilies swaying with every warm breeze--it’s the boy standing in the middle of it all that catches Keith’s attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He, the young man, younger than Keith by a year and a handful of summer months, stands raptly in front of an old fountain, his hands out, palms up as if in offering. Or surrender. A statue of a woman balances on her tiptoes, rising slightly from the pond of water at her feet, a jar tipped forward in her hands. The steady stream pouring from it slices sunshine to ribbons.  Light, from above and what bounces up from the water, finds every gold trinket the young man wears. The rings on his fingers. The jeweled studs in his ears. The circlet perched on his fine brow, half hidden in his wild hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dressed in his old leather armor with its dull chainmail, Keith isn’t touched in quite the same way. He does not shine. He does not glitter. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t have a single piece of gold on him. When sunlight finds him, it heats his dark hair and inspires beads of sweat to roll down his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It also hits the iron links, gleams forward, and lights up the statue’s face like a beacon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teen lowers his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith lowers his eyes before he’s caught looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” drawls a playful voice, “if you wanted to sneak up on me, you should’ve ditched the armor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith stares at the ground, fights a smile. “My apologies, I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunspots dance towards his feet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>All that gold</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks and chances a glance up. It’s not gold he sees then, but blue, so much blue. The royal family loves it as much as they do their tiny flashes of wealth. It's one of the McClain colors, blue. The other being white, like the sea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Lance McClain, the youngest prince, wears them both well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keith.” The playful tone is gone, replaced by something sterner. “We’ve talked about this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith grits his teeth. Unconsciously, he stands up straighter and grips the hilt of one of his daggers. Not with intent, but because it makes him feel better knowing it’s there. Lance sees him do it. Lance has seen him do it nearly all his life and knows to not be afraid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We talk about a lot of things, my prince.” Slowly, Keith lets his hand fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance all but rolls his eyes at him. “Keith, seriously. Drop it. No one’s around. And even if they were, do you really think they'd say something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s speaking out of turn if we--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t if I say it isn’t.” He steps towards him. The closer he gets, the more Keith can see the dampness darkening the edges of his robe, light blue gone dark. “And I say it isn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile threatens to break Keith’s control. He can’t help commenting, “You’ve been practicing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Lance just blinks. Then it comes to him, maybe because Keith’s eyes drop suggestively to the water rolling down Lance’s long fingers. Maybe because he suddenly remembers on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Delight hits Lance like sunshine. For a second time, Keith winces and averts his eyes. “Looks like I've been caught. Well--I was going to say ‘red handed’ but I don’t think that fits.” Lance wiggles his fingers, shedding water droplets as he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That does it. Keith’s stony expression breaks, dissolves like the small, cubed sugar Lance takes in his tea but the handful. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, softly so, in case the wrong ears are listening around the expansive gardens, and even then, it's only meant for Lance to hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t expect the careless touch Lance gives him, the gliding press of his hand against his shoulder. There, then gone. Pressure, warmth, and lingering goosebumps that rises up the very second Lance removes his hand. “Ridiculous? The only </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculous</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing is that you think you have to pretend we don’t know each other. Keith, we’ve been friends since. . .since. . .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t like Lance to forget important things. On the contrary, Lance is particularly adept at two things:  Remembering life-changing events, and making them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a trap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or an offering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith gives in, not because it’s what Lance wants, but because he’s distracted by the fleeting touch he still, somehow, feels against his shoulder, though Lance now fiddles with his crown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“. . .since we were eight. I know, Lance. I know. But if the court hears you--hears </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>--being careless, not following the proper protocols--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance scoffs. “‘Proper protocols’? Iverson has finally gotten to you, hasn’t he? I never thought you’d break.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not--!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is so! Screw protocol. You were my friend </span>
  <em>
    <span>before</span>
  </em>
  <span> you were my guardsman, so why do you want to pretend otherwise?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heat worms its way inside Keith’s armor. He’s uncomfortable and sweating and really wants to direct them inside the cooler, castle halls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glancing back at Lance, Keith ignores the other things he wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll never hear the end of it if I do. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>already</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t hear the end of it. From either of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance waves his hands at him, then cuts a smile worth a ransom. “Seems to me you can either hear it from both of us, or just one of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of these days, Keith might actually break down and forget their places. He might lightly shove Lance back when he gets like this, like he did when they were kids, or grab him by the lapels, just to wipe the victorious smirk off his face. But if he does, he knows it would be only a matter of time before he slips up and says things he shouldn’t say, confess things--dangerous, uncertain things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith spent a long time building up his walls, hiding behind his training and his so-called protocols. It’s safer that way. For the both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the thing about walls was that if you hit them enough, they tended to come crumbling down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, gods, if Lance knew where to hit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was decided the moment Keith followed him in the garden--always five paces behind, always with him in his sight--that Keith would end up doing whatever Lance wanted to do. It was no different from any other day, except today Lance had snuck out of his lessons and Keith had caught him, albeit moments too late, attempting to charm the water from the fountain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance blinks at him. “Fine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith nods. “But,” he says, silencing whatever it is Lance tries to say next. Something cocksure, no doubt. Something that would hit Keith right where it needed to. “You never said how it went. Did you do it? Did it work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, there's no mistaking the touch as anything but intentional.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance's fingers fold around his wrist, and suddenly, Keith is stumbling after him, drawn to the fountain’s marble edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you see for yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance's hand flutters away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flush of warmth crawling up Keith’s arm does not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later that night, while he keeps his post outside Lance’s chambers, Keith can’t recall how Lance pulls the water from the fountain, if it’s the way he moves his hands or the sweet things he whispers to it that does it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he remembers is the way the sunlight breaks apart across the water, and how it lights up Lance’s smile in gold.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Magic isn’t a constant thing. It’s fickle. It’s picky. It loves one day, then hates the next</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some are born with it; others find it along the way. But mostly, it tends to ignore people, skips over several generations at a time only to resurface centuries later in a single child or every sibling except one. It flees. It lies. Magic, if you ask Keith, isn’t something worth putting your faith in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Lance tries to entice magic into loving him, Keith was born without a lick of it. He’s powerless in that sense, dry as the river beds in the Southern Barrens, and about as wanting for it like the Fens want another flood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In short, he’s never cared much about magic and all the fancy things it helps people accomplish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In long, Keith’s always been a strong believer in himself, in his own body and how he can make it work. As long as he keeps up with his training, pushes himself to become better and stronger, he’ll never wonder if he’d wake up the next morning suddenly stripped of his power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all his own. Corded in his arms, his back, carved in his strong legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s in every practiced knife cut, every perfect throw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not given to him. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>earned</span>
  </em>
  <span> through hours of training every single day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Days like today, when one after another, the straw dummies fall to the ground, shredded back to hay and tattered burlap. When the last are dragged away, the morning has become a blistering afternoon. Despite the heat, Keith unbuckles his weapons belt, leaves it with his boots at the outside of the sawdust softening the fighting arena’s floor, and steps into the center. He glances at the faces of the other guards, the young or the old, and waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soldiers, fellow guardsmen, rookies all yield under his determination, most leaving with bruises. Some limp out on twisted ankles and aching pride. Others know better and sit along the edge of the ring, watching the poor fools who think they have a chance fall again and again, as the practice dummies did before them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of these onlookers offers Keith a cool waterskin and some pointers on technique. He’s a kind general, with a scarred face and a missing arm. The other soldiers call him Takashi the Black Death behind his back, a relic pulled from a war Keith was too young to fight in, let alone remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Keith, he’s simply known as Shiro.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remember to keep your feet spread. If you widen your stance, it’ll be easier for you to hold your ground if someone charges you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith considers this. Water rolls down his throat, and all Keith can think of is how it dripped from the sleeves of Lance’s robe. How, against Lance’s dark skin, water droplets looked like glittering gemstones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes away the thought. Passes the waterskin back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks. But no one can get near me, so what’s it matter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words barely hit the air before he’s toppling back. Distracted, thinking of things he knows he shouldn’t, Shiro uses the slip in his attention to his advantage and sweeps Keith’s feet out from under him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith hits the ground hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above him, Shiro beams. “Feet spread,” he repeats. “And don’t lose your focus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His gentle laughter follows Keith all the way through the last hours of training, his well-earned shower, and the lonely walk he makes through the castle halls. By then, a new night has painted the sky indigo, sunset a memory skimming the last inch above the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith hurries his stride, but it doesn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance waits for him outside, as he always does this time of night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The prince’s chambers are. . .modest, in a sense. While not as expansive as prince Luis’ rooms or princess Veronica’s spanning library suites, Lance’s rooms offer what theirs don’t:  an uninterrupted view of the river.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And at night, it’s at its most beautiful. The world up from Lance’s balcony looks as if it’s made of diamonds and pearls and chips of polished topaz. A mirror of the star-shot sky overhead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith’s seen this same view most of his life--he’s spent more time here than anywhere else, including the training grounds--but it still never fails to take his breath away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, Lance leans against the railing, arms crossed. His head is turned down, eyes faraway. Wind teases the silk flaps of his sleeping shirt open, and Keith spies inches of tan skin, a hint of toned muscle, the faint lines of hair disappearing past the waistline of his breeches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Keith's struck. He stares and knows that he shouldn’t and, gods, he does it anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance doesn’t notice him. He holds something between his fingers, which he rubs and examines, turning it this way and that. Whatever it is, it’s small, thin, and as white as the silk he wears. A button, perhaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith clears his throat. “My prince, I’m here for my shift. Where will you have me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The answer is as expected as the sight of the river and Lance’s broad back:  “Beside me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not entirely unnoticed, then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith suspects Lance waits for him on purpose, less to do with enjoying the expanse of the city lights below his feet than to keep with tradition. This, after all, has been something they’ve done for years, Lance casually thrown over the balustrade as he watches the sun sink, Keith ever by his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight is no different from a thousand nights before, but for some reason, Keith feels uneasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks up beside him. There’s no one around to spy on them and whisper about later. The prince’s rooms are entirely vacant, as Keith made sure of when he first arrived, so it’s easier to do as he asks, and Keith leans against the railing with him. It’s almost like they’re kids again, Keith gawking at the capital and all its quiet beauty, Lance’s warm breath naming every building right against his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith touches his knife, the rounded pommel fitting his palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should say something. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. Unsaid things crowd inside him, tickle up his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s Lance who speaks first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All’s well,” he asks. Whatever he’s toying with is lost in the folds of his fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith frowns. What is it? And why doesn’t Lance want him to see?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it,” Keith asks in reply. He points at Lance’s hand. “What do you have there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance glances down at his own hand, brows arched in surprise. “What? This? That’s a hand, Keith, surely you know what those are? You have two of them yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith cuts him a look. Lance returns with a smile that has no right doing the things it does to him. Even in the dark, Lance still finds a way to shine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Funny. I didn’t know what they were called.” Keith folds his fingers over the railing, the old stone warm against his palms. Lance’s are right there, an inch away. Keith could touch him if he wants. No, not if he wants--if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>tries</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suspect not. I bet you like to think of them as ‘knife-holders’ or ‘bruisers’.” The laugh dies before it even fully arrives, turning into a light cough Lance’s covers behind his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all Keith can do not to roll his eyes at him. “That’s right. Though </span>
  <em>
    <span>bruisers</span>
  </em>
  <span> has a nice ring to it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s teasing, playing along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance drops his hand. Stares a moment, then visibly relaxes. Keith barely has time to wonder about it before Lance rocks into him, bumping their shoulders together. The worry flies right out of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re complaining about you, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith doesn’t ask who.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groans and stands straight, less to do with aggravation than to replace that respectable distance between them. “I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. It’s not my fault no one else can keep up with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance spins, bracing his back against the railing, an easy smile on his mouth. “I, personally, appreciate your dedication. But you </span>
  <em>
    <span>might</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to calm down a little and not break the other guardsmen. They’re delicate, you know. Not made of such stern stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith huffs. “They should put more effort in their training then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, why would they do that when it’s so much easier to run their mouths?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d know,” Keith says before he can stop himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a stretch of silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith worries he’s spoken out of turn, and he rushes to apologize, when Lance suddenly barks with laughter. It swells through the night, bright as stars, warm as the gentle shove Lance throws against Keith’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry me like that! I might think you’ve been replaced.” Lance’s arm snakes through Keith’s, and he pulls him along, back towards his rooms. “Now that you mention it, though, all that </span>
  <em>
    <span>running</span>
  </em>
  <span> sure has left me tired. Come now. Take me to bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith knows Lance’s joking. Deep down, he knows. But his body is stupid and slow to catch up, and he burns the distance from the balcony to Lance’s chambers with shame and hidden desire.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all by design.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Keith is distracted, Lance lets go of what he’s holding, casts it over the side of the balcony before he takes Keith’s arm and leads him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he looks back, for even a second, he might see the wind toy with something wafer-thin and white, something that looks, suspiciously, like a rose petal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Odd, considering the gardens are so far below.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ten years ago, Keith woke up with an empty belly and his mind set on theft. Dust coated his arms and grime encrusted his feet. His hair hung in matted, oily strands around his face. His once fine shirt had worn to threads, and the ratty fabric slid off his narrow shoulders, now too-big for his slight, bony frame. Hunger does that, carves away the substance of a person. Keith was no stranger to it, nor it to him. They were, if he was willing to admit it, almost like friends.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Market Town was in full swing by the first light of day. Stall owners rolled back their colorful curtains, hung their wares in their baskets and displayed them in crates. The alleys swelled with the sweet spice of baking bread and gleaming, fresh fruit. Tables groaned under the weight of the catch of the day, giant blue salmon whose shining, dead eyes followed Keith as he skirted between legs and long, drawn shadows, nearly invisible against the stone walls.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was easy, snagging a sweet roll from the corner of a table, where no less than three dozen more sat, steaming in the cool morning air. Honey rolled down his fingers, sticky beads of gold. Heat seared his skin. The scent of cinnamon burned his nose in the best possible way. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His old friend Hunger grew restless and jealous.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His new friend Greed encouraged Keith to steal another before he darted off.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The shop owner saw him the second time, crouched half-under the table, both of his small, dirty hands full of sweet bread. She shouted at him, high and frantic, drawing attention from the growing crowd.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There came a sharp noise, the sound of metal freeing from a sheath.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith knew better than to wait around and see what she intended to do. Starving to death seemed like a better option than losing his hands, so he bolted, hot glaze sliding down his arms, clutching desperately to the rolls so he wouldn’t drop them.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He looked back, saw the crowd part and press to either side of the alley--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>--and then he collided into something.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. Some</span>
  </em>
  <span>one</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The force knocked them both to the ground.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The sweet rolls flew out of his hands and hit the dirt, crushed instantly beneath a set of boots rushing forward.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith scrambled back. His stomach mourned the loss of those treats like they were family. Tears swarmed his eyes. Not only would he strave, but he’d starve </span>
  </em>
  <span>and</span>
  <em>
    <span> lose his hands.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh no--I’m sorry, I’m sorry, hey, it’s okay, don’t--are you </span>
  </em>
  <span>crying</span>
  <em>
    <span>?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith started. He glared back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A boy in fine clothes sat there, just behind him, braced on his hands. His eyes, Keith noticed, were the same, sharp blue as the morning sky, and full of apology.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe that’s why Keith told him, “No, don’t be stupid,” even though tears traced scalding patches down his cheeks.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe that’s why, when a pair of strong hands hauled Keith up, the other boy staggered to his feet and shouted, “Wait!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The guard sputtered when Keith’s foot caught him in the belly. He held him further out, but kept hold. “He was stealin’, highness--you saw him run.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At that moment, the shop owner reached them. Red blotches flared high in her cheeks when she saw who was there, and she quickly dropped her dagger, her hands flying up.  “My prince! I mean no harm towards you, I promise it. This boy stole from me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Highness</span>
  <em>
    <span>? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Prince</span>
  <em>
    <span>? Keith gawked at the boy he’d sent tumbling to the ground and felt a new wash of terror.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He no longer worried about his hands.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now his life hung there, clutched in the strong hold of one of the prince’s personal guard.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The prince went up to the woman. He was as polite as prayer, as courteous as Keith imagined a prince to be. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He can’t have stolen them if I pay for them.” Said so surely. This was a boy who was never told no, who had never spent a day hungry. A heavy handful of silver coins appeared in his hand, which he spilled into the merchant’s palm. “Some extra, too, for taking you away from your business.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The woman stared at the collection of coins, no less than four times as much as the rolls surely cost. She bowed once towards the boy, whispering her thanks. “I appreciate it, my prince. You and your kin are always so generous. You should see to it that this urchin doesn’t get any more ideas, though. Next time I’ll--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The little prince crouched down and picked up the woman’s dagger, held it out towards her, hilt first. “There’ll be no next time, ma’am.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Satisfied, if not a little surprised, she took her dagger, and with one, last smug look, she stamped through the crowd back to her stall all the richer for the trouble Keith caused her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Once she’d gone, Keith found his voice, and asked the prince, “Are you gonna kill me?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The prince looked back. “Going to,” he said almost automatically. “Gonna isn’t proper.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith’s heart sank. “Oh.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wait, no. That’s not what I meant.” The boy walked up to him and gestured for his guard to lower him, which he did, though his fingers remained twisted firmly in the back of Keith’s shirt. “Sorry. My sisters hate it when I speak lazy. I’m not going to kill you. I’m not </span>
  </em>
  <span>gonna</span>
  <em>
    <span> kill you, either.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My name's Lance,” he said, and held out his hand.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith didn’t want to touch him with his sticky, dirty fingers, and simply nodded at him. "Keith."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re hungry, right, Keith? That’s why you took that lady’s food?” When Keith didn’t answer, Lance didn’t seem to mind, and kept on talking, speaking both to his guard and to Keith as he directed them down the busy street. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore. If you want to come with me, I’ll make sure you always have something to eat.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The prince grinned wide, like this was something special and rare, and Keith knew from then on that he’d follow this prince around the world four times over if it meant he might get to see it again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Thanks to the river and sharing a border with the sea, the kingdom of Portia sits in comfortable neutrality amid its neighboring countries, often offering use of its impressive (and many) docks for its allies' use. As such, the city is overrun with foreigners. The catch of the day isn't always blue salmon or spined gar but shining, exotic boats gliding through the sparkling ocean, full with faces as different and exciting as the things they bring to sell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance loves the docks. He loves them almost as much as he loves the clear, aquamarine waters and the distant glimpses of bright coral spied at low tide. He loves the ships, their hulking bodies creaking and shifting with each rolling wave, no two ever the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, Lance begs Keith to follow him down to the shore. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want to collect shells</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he'd say. Or, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mother's birthday is soon. I want to find her a gift.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It didn't matter the excuse--Keith willingly escorts him wherever he goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As his personal guard, it's part of the job.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As his friend, Keith enjoys spending time together outside of court.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance is more himself out here, in the sunny open. He laughs more, smiles constantly. He talks animatedly to his people, greeting everyone he sees. His hands are there for elderly women to clutch as they climb up from their boats, or presented for fishermen to shake. They lift up children who squeal in delight at being tossed or hugged. Keith's watched some of these same people press a kiss against the Crest ring Lance wears, as if the sapphire-and-gold granted them good health and luck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's clear that the Portians love their prince, and that their prince loves them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most days, they bring him gifts. Small trinkets from their shops, free meals, and everything in between. Lance might carry a small sachet of silver (which Keith keeps in his own pocket to deter thieves), but most days he doesn't lose a single coin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today, Lance chats up the local merchants. Keith can already tell the pile of gifts growing by his elbow is going to be a large one, more than the empty sack slung over his back can carry. Lance may have to buy them another one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So far there's two books, an ornate glass jar Keith overheard was made from volcanic sand, a spray of sea lilies a couple of children brought him, a full bottle of some amber liquid that turned out to be a woodsy cologne, and a sealed box of expensive chocolates. Keith watches silently as a woman comes up and sets a heavy-looking chunk of crystal by the prince's hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All these gifts, these precious, priceless things, just because they love him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And truthfully? Keith understands why they do. He even gets why they hold his hand and kiss his fingers, why they gather around him to listen to his stories or ask their questions. Lance adores everyone he comes in contact with, fully, without question or judgement. When he brought Keith to the castle all those years ago, Keith spent a long time wondering why he did it. But now? Not at all. Lance’s heart was one made to love and care for things, and that’s exactly what he did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Lance claps his hands together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sharp noise draws Keith’s attention, as it’s meant to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps up to Lance’s side. “Yes, my prince?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s eyes dazzle when they meet his. “I have something for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith glances down at the mess scattered on the table. It’s set aside from the merchant’s main tent, cleared the moment Lance asked if he could borrow it; the empty crates that were stored on it are stacked beneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t need--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance waves his hand. “One, I know that. Two, it’s already too late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The merchant woman passes the prince two sweet rolls bundled in soft, crinkling paper. Lance keeps one and hands the other to him, smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steam kisses the tips of Keith’s fingers when he takes it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A generous dash of pecans dust the top, but that’s the only difference. The smell--sweet cinnamon and honey--nearly knocks Keith off his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s hand pulls away, and in doing so, his fingers glide over Keith’s hand. On purpose? On accident? It doesn’t matter. Keith feels the touch roll into his stomach all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For anyone else, it’s a small treat, like giving the prince a gift or kissing luck off his family ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But to Keith, it’s so much more than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clutches the roll tightly, digging dents into the fine, fluffy bread before he even takes his first bite. “I--thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance winks, takes a huge bite out of his own. Honey glazes his lips. “Hurry and eat it,” he warns playfully, “before it gets cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten, Keith can’t help but think how much sweeter the honey would have tasted if he’d kissed it off Lance’s mouth instead.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That thought follows him around all day, as he shadows Lance through Market Town and the long walk back to the castle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It keeps him company as he stands outside Lance’s chambers when he finally goes to bed, and then it creeps unknowingly into Keith’s cot later on when he tries to sleep. Keith isn’t aware of it until it’s all he can think about--Lance’s full lips and his smile shining with honey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his dreams, the two of them stand in a pool choked with sea lilies and koi, and Lance entertains them by making the water dance. It whips around them, changing shapes, turning from bubbles into elephants with a single laugh. Keith marvels at him, at this loud display of magic. At the sudden closeness of their bodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Keith presses his hand against the water, now in the form of a peacock, it crashes over him, soaking his clothes, drenching his hair. But then it doesn’t matter because Lance comes to him, his hands touching Keith’s suddenly naked stomach. Water rolls down his skin. Keith feels where each drop leads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows a moment before it happens that Lance’s hands will follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t prepare him for the seeking touch Lance presses between his thighs, the breath of a laugh Lance sighs against Keith’s ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hurry</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” the prince murmurs teasingly, like he had in the market, except this time his mouth falls against Keith’s, tasting of honey and spice and the small noises he makes as moves his hands between them, slowly at first, then faster and faster--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith jerks awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shivers, skin cooled by sweat and spent euphoria and the shame of what just happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is the type of dark that comes at either midnight or the seconds before dawn. The candle by his bedside has melted to a nub in its holder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shakily, Keith pushes himself up, feeling the ghostly memory of Lance’s touch from his dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Already the dream is breaking apart, becoming less and less, a string of images he can barely remember. Honey-flavored kisses. The pink koi circling his ankles. Where Lance led his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith slams his fist against the wall hard enough the shelves above his bed rattle threateningly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives himself a single, drawn moment to cling to those thoughts, that wicked, dying dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he leaves his room to scrub his body clean and clear the last remnants of it in the training hall before the sun fully rises.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumor spreads through the castle that a very special guest is on their way. In the following weeks, Keith hears all sorts of guesses on who that might be. A maid polishing the silver whispers that it's an empress from the east, coming with an entourage of a thousand men and women all riding golden stallions. A couple of the guards believe one of the war generals stationed in the Fens is returning home--and with dour news of war following his heels. The gardeners grumble that there isn’t anyone coming, that the extra cleaning and preparation is for the annual ball the royal family holds to celebrate its people. And though that holds a ring of truth, Keith hasn’t seen any other of the usual decorations, the seaglass lanterns or the Queen’s beloved silver-thread rugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whoever it is, though, has Lance in a foul mood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He storms around his chambers for days, barely speaking, even to Keith, who stands and watches it all in silence. Hunk, a kitchen aid and a friend of the prince, brings him plates of his favorite dishes, all which go untouched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith and him exchange worried glances the second day this happens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's up with him?" Hunk stands by Keith at his post outside of Lance's room. It's well after dark, and Keith's been there for hours already, banished early. "Has he said anything to you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No. He's been going to a lot of meetings with the rest of the family, though. And they don't let anyone in. 'Private business' is what he calls it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hunk frowns. He steals a roll off the plate and nibbles on it. "Man, I wish he'd talk to one of us. I hate it when he gets like this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At Hunk's prompting, Keith takes the other roll and turns it in his hands. "Give him time. He will when he's ready. And if he doesn't. . .then it's not our business to know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hunk cocks a brow at him. "I guess so. Try to make him eat next time, okay? I don't care how upset he is--not eating is only gonna make things worse."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes two more days before Keith cracks. Two days before he takes the plate of food to Lance himself and slams it down on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dozens of jars shudder from the force. Perfumes and cosmetics, pots of finely milled clay--each colorful jar holds something wildly different from the other, and Lance has spent the last three hours relabeling them to obscene perfection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance snaps his head up. The pen he's holding weeps ink down his fingers, and for a dizzying second, Keith almost mistakes it for blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I told you I'm not hungry," Lance tells him, waving his hand, brushing aside the food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I heard you." Keith jerks out the other chair and sits beside him, scooting the plate closer. "You haven't eaten in days. Don't think I haven't noticed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance scowls. "I've not felt well, so what? It's not a big deal, Keith."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you're unwell, why haven't you asked for a healer? I can fetch Samuel if you'd like--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I wouldn't. What I'd </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> is for people to leave me alone." His tone is razor sharp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith hears the unspoken command in it and doesn't rise to the bait. "So it’s wrong for people to worry about you?" The prince turns his head. His hands, Keith notices, are shaking. "Lance. Whatever it is, you can tell me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That does it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some of the tension eases out of Lance's shoulders. He tosses the pen down, ink spraying across the shell-crusted tabletop, stains that will never lift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>". . . I'm not supposed to," he admits, very softly, like they aren't the only two in the room. ". . .you can't imagine how much pressure this is, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> it is--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance presses his face into his hands, and just. . .</span>
  <em>
    <span>sinks</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Keith wants to reach out, has his hand half-way across the table before he realizes what he's doing and stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know I won't tell. Your secrets are my secrets. I swore an oath."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance's hands fall to the table. There's ink smudged across his cheek, coloring his fingertips like bruises. "If memory serves, you swore several." His eyes dip down when he says this, snagging on Keith's side, on the dagger he wears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, he's staring beyond the leather and chainmail, tracing over a line of scar tissue cut across Keith's stomach and remembering the day Keith earned it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith pushes the plate forward again. "Eat, and tell me what's been bugging you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance's eyes snap up. "There really isn't any point." He rises from the table in a single, fluid motion; the chair doesn't make a sound when he pushes it back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps across the room, and for a moment, Keith thinks he's set off his pacing again, but Lance only walks out onto the balcony and waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith follows him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The city of Portia is in full riot. The specks of ships canter on the distant line of the ocean, coming and going. Indecipherable noise builds and wanes, hundreds of voices overlapping in conversation. From somewhere in the castle, music plays, the sweet, mournful singing of a lap harp. Dogs bark down in the gardens, where their owners laugh over tea and roses and their silly antics. The river cuts a molten ribbon of gold through the town, drunk on afternoon sunshine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance braces himself against the balustrade and Keith hears him breathe in deeply. It smells as it always does outside--like roses and sea water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith hasn't forgotten their conversation. He asks, "What do you mean?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Lance doesn't reply. He's too busy looking over at the town, surveying the ships and the different ways the large bodies of water move. Once, Lance told him that he could feel the pull of the currents even from his bedroom. The river's like a lullaby, the ocean's like a drum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean," Lance says, speaking towards the harbor. "That you'll get to meet her soon enough. She's set to arrive by the end of the week."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith frowns. "Who is?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance barks out a mirthless laugh. If possible, his sour mood grows even darker. Keith is right there beside him and has never felt further away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My betrothed, of course."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The summer air turns blistering hot. Suffocating. Pressing in on all sides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Your. . .betrothed?" Keith can only parrot the words back. They have no meaning to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance turns away from his city, away from Keith, stifling a cough into his hands. When he speaks again, his voice is suddenly tight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't worry, we're making a huge celebration of it. You won't miss a thing." Lance coughs again, a deep, clawing sound that has to hurt. Keith takes an automatic step forward--and Lance holds up his hand to stop him. "No. Go. I'm tired."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't make me say it again, Keith."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith rocks his weight between his feet, hesitating, but when Lance walks away from him, further down the rounded balcony, coughing into his hands, Keith turns and leaves him like he's asked.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The pub was suspiciously dark. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Grime coated the windows both inside and out. Sunlight's attempts to find a way in were feeble at best, even at high noon, and the result was a place that looked like it existed permanently in nighttime. A fire roared in the hearth all-seasons, which provided most of the light, while the rest came from tallow candles melted directly onto the dirty tabletops. The food came in chipped wooden bowls or on splintered plates, often cold and shot with gristle. On the other hand, the drinks arrived warm unless you tipped the barmaid an extra silver crown for a cup of ice chips.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Frankly, the Tinner Inn was a dive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So why Lance wanted to come here--no, </span>
  </em>
  <span>sneak </span>
  <em>
    <span>here--in the dead of night, Keith couldn't figure out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe it had something to do with the new restless energy that seemed to propel the prince along these days. He never sat still. His attention splintered easily and nothing held his focus. Keith sat with him some nights and listened to him pace around his room, talking about everything, jumping between topics so fast Keith barely kept up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now, sitting together at a knife-marred table, Lance was eerily quiet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The candlelight softened his features, cast them in a dreamy way. They sat close enough--the table was quite small--that Keith saw every one of the freckles splashed across his nose.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He swallowed and looked away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That'd been happening more and more recently too, noticing things he shouldn't notice or looking too hard at Lance's face. They spent a lot of time together, so Keith supposed it was only natural that he'd realize that Lance's dark skin flushed with freckles when he had too much sun, or that his eyes went aquamarine whenever he wore something green.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But the belly full of warmth whenever their eyes met--well, that was something Keith didn't know what to make of.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance leaned forward suddenly. His voice fell into whisper. "This isn't exactly what I thought this would be," he admitted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"The pub? It seems standard to me."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"So they're all this. . ."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith guessed what he was going to say. "Dirty? No. There's some that actually use real soap to scrub the tables."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance snickered. Keith's belly did that thing it was starting to do again. "No. I was going to say </span>
  </em>
  <span>moody.</span>
  <em>
    <span>"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh. Then, yeah. Most are."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Huh. So you've been to a lot of them, then?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Well. . .no. Just one other. The guardsmen treated me for my birthday, said it was. . .uh, time to grow some hair on my chest, and bought me a pint."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance's eyes sparkled. He'd heard this story already. Keith told him that same night when he snuck into Lance's room, bellysick, the stale taste of black ale still fuzzy on his tongue. Lance demanded all the details, and Keith spared him none.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"They were right," Lance teased, pointing at the twin goblets on the table. Both were full of clear, spring water. Tame, considering where they were. "Why didn't you get another? This time it would've been </span>
  </em>
  <span>my</span>
  <em>
    <span> treat."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith huffed. "No, and you know why. That stuff--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"--tastes like pitch," Lance finished delightedly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He'd dressed down for the occasion. Instead of his usual lush silk outfits, Lance wore a plain, billowy tunic and brown trousers, with a threadbare cloak (borrowed from Keith) tossed over his shoulders. His boots were fine but not </span>
  </em>
  <span>too</span>
  <em>
    <span> fine. All his rings and his crown lay on his vanity table back at the castle, the gold too telling to wear out. The only things he kept were his glittering earrings; the little jewels kept catching the candlelight, emeralds and winking sapphires. Uncommon treasures, but nothing that'd give him away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith blamed this as the reason he kept staring. Because, gods, Lance looked a little less like a prince and a little more like some rich merchant's son stopping in for a bite with a friend.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He looked--did Keith even want to think it?--</span>
  </em>
  <span>attainable.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Again, he swallowed. And again, Lance caught his stare and smiled in that gentle way of his.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Does it really,” Lance asked in a hush.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"What?" Keith answered a beat behind, his mind racing to catch up to what Lance was asking.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Taste like pitch?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"How would I know what pitch tastes like?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance shrugged. "I don't know what you do with your time off."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The inn was quiet at that time of night. If Keith listened hard enough, he could hear the birdsong outside, the crickets whistling in the brush.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s why he noticed when the door to the inn opened, and glanced up in time to see a man come in, his boots dragging heavily across the floor. Keith took in his weather-worn cloak and bowed shoulders, saw his ratty headscarf and rotten laces, and immediately took his hand off the table and grabbed the knife he wore. Lance--dazzling, curious Lance--peeked over his shoulder.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s what did it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The light hit Lance’s fine earrings, brought the jewels to life, and with it, snagged the man’s attention.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He broke away from the counter, limped past the tables their way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Under his breath, Keith urged, “I think it’s time we go.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance frowned. His brows lowered and all that bright curiosity burned. “I think you might be right.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They rose together as the man made it to them.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Going somewhere, boys?” The man, no more than thirty, had a rasping voice earned from years spent burning his throat raw with rum and cigar smoke. Up close, he stank of it, the acrid tobacco grass popular with sailors. “And here I walked all this way to say hello.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance smiled apologetically. It was in his nature to sooth. “Hello then,” he said, “We hit a bit of bad timing is all. We were just on our way out.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith took a step forward, angled his body between Lance and the man, showing off the glittering hilt of his knife. The man’s eyes dipped down sure enough, but the sight of the knife only prompted him to glance up again at Lance’s wealthy ears.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Idiot. I should’ve told him to take them out.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Too late for that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They’d have to be clever about this. Lance might be good with words, but this wasn’t the place for them. This man wouldn’t care that Lance’s had a silver tongue unless it was actually worth that once cut out of his mouth. And his earrings? Outside of Portia, emeralds were rare and priceless to the right buyer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And everything had the right buyer if you knew how to find them.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith should have thought of that sooner.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The man glanced back at Keith. “Your friend’s sweet. Sure you two don’t want to stay for a bite? Betcha I can tell you some interesting stories about Kingard that’ll make it worth the extra hour. ‘Sides, looks like you two didn’t get your plates yet.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith didn’t break eye contact with the man. He noticed he kept glancing at Lance, noting the mark glittering in Lance’s ears. And gods help if he knew who Lance was, how much more he’d be worth then.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everything has the right buyer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith knocked his shoulder against Lance’s, urging him back. “We really have to be going.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The man flashed him a smile full of rotten teeth. “Pity.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance went first, weaving through the tables with purpose, spine straight, steps sure. Keith followed him, a beat behind, keeping a careful eye on the man as they made their way out the front door.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’d barely latched behind them before Keith grabbed Lance’s arm and hauled him towards the road.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Run,” he urged.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For some reason, Lance broke out in a wild grin. “I’ve always heard stories about--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The inn door slammed open. The man limped out, sea-worn cloak billowing. He hollered out, “Now, come on boys! Let’s have a chat!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A dagger the length of Keith’s arm gleamed wickedly in his hand.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith pushed Lance back and spun, unsheathing his knife in the same, fluid movement. “Go,” he told him. He didn’t take his eyes off the sailor though the last thing he wanted was one final look at Lance’s face. “Get to the castle. Run--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What, and leave you here? Don’t be stupid, I’m not--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Lance, </span>
  </em>
  <span>please</span>
  <em>
    <span>. You’re more important--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith </span>
  </em>
  <span>felt</span>
  <em>
    <span> Lance's anger hit. “It doesn’t work like that!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Their argument was cut short. The man rushed forward, blade drawn, every second of extra time Lance might’ve had lost. Unable to do anything else, Keith kept Lance behind him and stood his ground.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It didn’t matter that both of them ran drills together all their lives. It didn’t matter that Lance was raised on tactical advantage and poured over strategy books for fun. It didn’t matter that Lance grew up sparring in the training arena, that he could fight just as well as Keith could. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>All that mattered was that when Keith ran his mind through what might happen, all he could see was Lance tossed on the ground, all the jewels cut from his ears, his throat slit,  a waterfall of blood soaking the front of his tunic.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith would not let that happen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The man choked out a laugh. “Nice of you to wait. I’d hate to have to chase you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then his blade lashed out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith’s carved up in a perfect arch, met it halfway in a clang of metal coming together. The man was strong. Keith's arm shook parrying the blow back. At the same time, he bumped back into Lance, who hadn’t moved from his spot behind him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Frustration tore a growl from his throat. “Lance, </span>
  </em>
  <span>go</span>
  <em>
    <span>!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance shook his head.  "No, I--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith shoved him and slashed his dagger out, forcing the man a step back. "Go!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What the prince did instead was kneel down, and in a blur of movement, drew a small knife from the inside of his boot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"No," Lance said firmly, fingers folded around that small blade. It looked out of place on him, like a toy. "I won't leave you."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith bit back another groan. Fine. If he wouldn't leave, then he'd just have to keep the man away, for as long as he could. It was just one man, afterall. That was nothing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And it should've been. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Desperate to keep Lance safe, Keith didn't think of anything except driving the man back. He cut his knife into his arm when he got too close. He kicked at his knees when he thought he could skirt around him. And in the end, his single-minded focus was what did it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith didn't think of the possibility that the sailor might have friends.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not until he heard Lance call behind him, in a steady voice, "Keith."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That was it. Just his name.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith's attention snapped to him at once, and he faltered, forgetting all about the guy who he was fighting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Another man held Lance against his chest, almost lazily pressing the point of a knife under Lance's chin. No. Not just any knife--Lance's own, small blade he'd taken from his boot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It took a second. A moment of locked stares.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And a moment was all it took.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The man from the pub kicked Keith hard in the stomach. Air burst past his lips. Bile scorched up his throat. His dagger fell from his fingers </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith hit his knees, scrambling uselessly for his knife--only to watch it pinwheel away when the man kicked it towards the river.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance tensed. He grit his teeth. "Stop it! Whatever you want, take it! Just leave him alone!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The other sailor chuckled. He dug the blade in a little further, and the world became the single, red bead of blood rolling down Lance's throat. Keith slammed his hands on the ground, and dagger or not, odds with him or against, he drove his fist into the other man's gut, seeing only the image of the knife dug in Lance's skin.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He was rewarded with a punch to the head.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His vision dimmed, became starbursts of pain.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Now," said the man from the inn, grinning with his rotten teeth. "You wouldn't want anything bad to happen, would you?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith sucked in a breath. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Behind him, Lance made a soft noise of distress.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith's heart lurched, his panic spiked, and he tried to turn, to look back at him, to make sure he was okay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And missed the moment the man from the inn buried his blade in his stomach.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pain bent him double. Blood rushed past his fumbling fingers, his palms hot and sticky within seconds. From far away, he heard Lance howl.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stop it! Stop! I said you could take what you want--stop hurting him!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There was a thud. An exchange of words Keith couldn't grasp. He rolled on the dirt, heaving, biting back a wail. Blood kept soaking his shirt. He couldn't get it to stop. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A splash. A gurgle. Keith tried not to breathe in too deeply, his side in agony no matter what he did or didn't do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I'm going to die like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For some reason, the thought comforted him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A set of hands suddenly flew over him. He braced for another hit, another burning stab, the sight of brown teeth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Palms cradled his cheeks instead. Lance, looming over him, obscured from the nighttime shadows. His ears, Keith realized dimly, were bare.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Hey--hey, oh--" Lance looked around them. He was breathing so hard that when he dragged Keith into his lap, each breath gently rocked them both. It hurt. But then, so did everything else. "Stay with me, okay? Okay? Keith, I need you to talk to me--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith scanned him over, touched his fine clothes, leaving a trail of bloody handprints. "Are you. . . ."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"No. Fine. I'm fine." Lance's hands replaced Keith's at his side. It was sacrilegious, dirtying those fine hands. "But--Keith, I don't know what to do--"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Told you. . .to run. . . ."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"What? No. I won't. You--" The pressure increased. Keith bit back a swear. "Sorry! Sorry. I-I can't--it won't stop."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith blinked. The world pitched forward, spun backwards. He shut his eyes before it made him sick. "Where. . .those men. . . ."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Ran off. Gone. . .both of them. Hey--you can't fall asleep on me. Promise? Keith? Promise me."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was easier to lay like that than try.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He hummed, to let him know he heard, but the rest? Lost in a haze of his aching stomach and Lance's voice rising higher and higher, screaming for help.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, getting stabbed in the stomach hurt less than this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith stands watch as the princess arrives. Though it's no thousand men and women, and the horses are more silver than gold, the maid's prediction was the closest he'd heard. Most Portians have never laid eyes on the allusive Alteans from the south-west, and proof of this can be seen in the crowds flocking to the roadside for a glimpse, a peek at the rumored beauty of the Altean princess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those that see her are not disappointed. Her skin is darker than Lance's, more on the side of deep than tan, and her eyes peer out from a fan of white lashes, sharply intelligent and colored like gemstones. Her gown is magnificent, as one would expect, a slim skirt stitched with silver-thread, the bodice tight-fitting and crusted with crystal. Maybe even diamonds. Keith doesn't know much about the Altean empire, just that they prefer diplomacy above all else and, as far as history remembers, tend to stay out of border-wars and internal squabbles amongst the other royalty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curiously, markings stand out on her cheekbones, shaped like pink boomerangs. Keith wonders what they stand for, if they mean she's of royal blood or something Other, and if she was born with them or if they were tattooed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance waits with the rest of his family down near the line of carriages, dressed to match in silks of silver and white. It was planned like this, so the kingdom of Portia would see them come together as they're meant to be:  a perfect pair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All morning, Lance paced his rooms, feet anxious, hands craving distraction, rattling on and on about nothing. He barely ate (no surprise) and fussed at Keith until he relented and allowed Lance to braid his hair (which was a surprise). It put Keith in the mind of what happened after their visit to the Tinner Inn, the hazy days Keith spent drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming of Lance coming into his room to change the bloody bandages wrapped around his stomach. It probably didn't happen like that--why would a prince waste his time when the castle was staffed with some of the finest healers?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Keith dreams of it sometimes, and those dreams feel real as memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance never brought it up. If they got on the topic of that day at all, Lance's face generally went tight, and he spoke clippedly, answering Keith's questions with concise information.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You survived, what's it matter?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>One of the men ran off.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The other? Dead.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How? Drowned.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Through these small insights, Keith learned that the splashing noises he'd heard--and barely remembered--had been made by river water surging up the bank. Lance said one of the men </span>
  <em>
    <span>drowned</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And who else manifested water magic just weeks later, to the shock of everyone in the castle?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance wouldn't admit such a thing. And yet, he snuck to the garden or down to the river whenever he could, trying to tame this new part about him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Overhead, the sky is as clear a blue as Lance's eyes, as the rippling pennant flags of the McClain house colors whipping in the breeze. Heat worms inside Keith's armor. Sweat beads across his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's the way Lance takes the princess's hand that makes Keith uncomfortable. He's watched the people of Portia kiss his fingers for so long that it no longer makes him envy not being able to do the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never has he watched Lance do it to someone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance draws the princess's hand to his lips and brushes a fond kiss against her knuckles. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Princess Allura."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you as well," the princess replies, her lovely voice accented and musical. "Your kingdom is absolutely lovely."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes everything in Keith not to look away. Or leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand is still in his, held lightly by her fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith isn't a jealous person. He knows nothing will happen between them, that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span>, despite how much he wants it, how he might dream it into existence. That isn't how it works.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way Lance smiles at Allura, how she smiles back, even the gentle way Lance leads her up the steps, guiding her with care, just proves what Keith has known all along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can swear any sort of vow to stay by Lance's side--</span>
  <em>
    <span>'from morning until the long night'</span>
  </em>
  <span>--but that does not make him his.</span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keith likes to think he does a good job stomping down any evidence of how he feels. He makes it look like loyalty, the special kind of devotion that comes from owing someone his life--not once, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>twice</span>
  </em>
  <span>. While this is all true, it isn’t completely honest. It is, however, safer that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Lance leads him through the wide, open chambers of the palace’s west wing--glorious rooms designed with summer in mind, open archways facing the sparkling bank of the river and the distant glimpses of the sea--Keith attempts, and fails, not to notice how the high, afternoon sun filters through the silk tunic Lance wears. He’s ditched the white and blue for today and instead wears a color like that of tangerines. The warmth of it against his skin flushes him in a way Keith rarely sees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s dangerous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith squeezes the butt of his knife and forces himself to look elsewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s voice echoes through the empty rooms like song. "Mother says they're setting up a ball to welcome the princess. Can you believe it? An entire ball just to welcome someone here." He gives a weak little laugh. "Or maybe it's an elaborate cover to introduce Allura to how we do things. I'd say it's that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They round a corner together, Keith a few steps behind, Lance up ahead, hands swirling in the air as he speaks. His rings shine. His crown is a halo of light that brings out the natural red tones in his hair. Even his eyes glitter like stones, so polished and fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keith?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts. Lance is looking right at him, half-turned, hands paused in mid-air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An amused smile curls the corners of Lance’s mouth. “What’s this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith immediately frowns. “I don’t know what you’re--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw your face. You were smiling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was he? Probably. It’s a stupid slip-up, and Keith clutches his knife tighter until the blunt metal feels like it’s about to draw blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my prince,” he lies smoothly. He drops his hand, and before Lance can poke his fingers in any deeper, he asks, “Where are you taking us?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance claps his hands together. “You’ll see! We’re almost there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he’s off, his line of questioning forgotten in his sudden excitement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith wants to smile again, catches it quick, and clamps down his teeth so he won’t slip again. He thinks of Lance's fingers curled around Allura's hand, and the urge fades.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room Lance takes them to is some sort of unused gallery. Wide landscape portraits hang on the walls, each in heavy, gilded frames. Priceless vases as tall as Keith’s hip stand in the corners, red coral plants craning towards where the sunlight spills in. He spies a few statues of women, of men, twined together, paused mid-dance, their marble dresses and sashes hiked up over their smooth, round calves. Sitting on a long table shoved against the wall, a large bowl of water waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith tilts his head when he sees it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance steps towards the table, bare feet soundless across the tile floor. A little cautious, Keith follows him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fingers fluttering, Lance holds his hands out above the bowl. With a smile, a twitch of his fingers, the water curls up, a snake made of ripples and shine. It slithers around Lance’s wrist, nestles, stays. This isn’t the flimsy attempts from the garden weeks earlier--this is honed and defined. This is Lance’s dedication rendered in every sharp scale lining the water-snake’s thin belly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance glances back at Keith, smiling devilishly. “Any guesses yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith’s about to respond, has his mouth open and everything, when the water-snake lashes out. It’s thin fangs kiss Keith’s jaw. Two beads of water roll down his skin, harmless venom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pieces come together in a rush. The water. The empty room. Lance’s proud smile and the magic crawling up his arm. Even his bare feet, if Keith paid attention, were a clue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to practice? Here?” Quieter, Keith asks, “With me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not with, </span>
  <em>
    <span>against</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Lance corrects. He’s poised on his toes, slowly positioning his body. That damn smile grows even wider, gifting Keith with a flash of perfect, white teeth. “It’s been a while. Think you can keep up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They used to do this when they were younger, though that was a time before Lance learned of his loose affinity for water magic and Keith was promoted to Lance’s personal guard.  They were kids throwing punches at each other in the barracks, learning drills side-by-side for years. Up until recently, they’d been evenly matched, Keith stronger but Lance faster, Keith perferring close-combat and knives over Lance’s beloved ranged weapons and strategy. Balanced. The other’s perfect pair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Lance said, it’d been a long while since they’d fought against one another. Years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Excitement lights Keith up, for more reasons than one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you should ask yourself that. Magic’s not exactly reliant.” Lance rolls his eyes, and Keith can’t help the breath of a laugh that follows. “You look like you’ve heard that before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Samuel harps on it </span>
  <em>
    <span>constantly</span>
  </em>
  <span> during lessons. It’s all I hear. ‘Magic is a practice only for the devout of heart.’ Or, ‘You can’t expect the same results from magic as you would with your bow.’ All day, every day. As if I don’t already </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. As if I haven’t read the same things over and over again in every book I find.” Lance stares at the water coiled around his arm. “I don’t care that it’s fickle. You know what? So am I. That makes us perfect for each other, if you ask me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water holds onto its snake-like shape, down to the beady eyes it turns towards Lance. To Keith, it looks very much alive, full of all the wild potential magic is supposed to have. But he also knows that the snake’s movements are all puppeted by Lance's imagination. It doesn’t have a mind of its own, it doesn’t move unless Lance wills it to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not a snake. It is a ribbon of water Lance manipulates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that doesn’t make it any less stunning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith steps forward. His fingers glide over the water, and he’s shocked the scales feel exactly as they would on a living snake. Impressive, to say the least. “You’ve grown a lot in just a few weeks. In the gardens, you made the water move, but it was nothing like this. It’s beautiful, Lance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he glances up, the prince is watching him, an odd look on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith realizes how close they stand, and he quickly retreats. He bows his head politely, fingers fluttering for the reassuring press of his dagger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“. . .thank you,” Lance says a few moments later. The snake curls around his neck now, slithering from one arm to the next, leaving a gleaming trail where it goes. “Rachel and Marco tease me that it’s pointless and showy. Samuel helps find me books and explains what they say, but no one’s. . .” Lance shakes his head. Even from a few steps away, Keith hears the way his breath hitches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith watches him, the shine of his gemstone eyes, and breathes, “No one’s what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seen it like I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magic may seem like an impossibility. To some, like Keith or Lance’s other siblings, it’s impractical and useless, an option they never had. But never once has Keith thought what Lance can do is anything other than spectacular.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quietly, Keith holds out his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance seems to know what he wants, and he sends the water to him. Each scale bumps over Keith fingers. It crawls all the way up his arm, curls around his bicep, lifts its sleek head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith strokes it. “It’s a little showy, sure. But pointless?” He speaks to the snake, watches it instead of Lance, but it doesn’t matter where his attention is--it matters that Lance hears him, and understands what he’s trying to say. “Lance, this is anything but pointless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water-snake bumps its head against his hand, and Keith thinks he made his point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith collects the snake--it’s heavy in his hands, and drapes as a snake would, all coils of muscle and bone. Real as the real thing. He attempts to pass it back, but the moment his eyes flick up and he catches sight of Lance’s face, the water collapses, flowing between his fingers. It splashes up his legs, up Lance’s, settles into a shallow puddle at their feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Keith thinks it's his fault. He clutched the water too hard, squeezed it, broke the illusion. Or he moved too fast, and without contact with Lance's skin, the water lost its shape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no. The look Lance wears confesses it's his doing, a momentary slip of concentration that destroyed the snake as easily as it made it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance pushes away from the table. The force of it rattles the bowl of water--it topples almost theatrically as Lance moves away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn't until Lance leaves the room that Keith understands it's the </span>
  <em>
    <span>water</span>
  </em>
  <span> that's moving, not the table. Like a small ocean trapped inside the bowl, waves crash against the sides until the dish flies down to the floor, shattering apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith is already gone, hurrying after Lance through the open antechamber, wind lashing through the glassless windows. Past the yawning archways, the afternoon sky has gone from egg blue to tulip pink. Frothy violet clouds grumble in the distance, casting the river in half-shadow, a storm on its way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Keith's heart, for whatever reason, begins to race.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance hasn't gone far. Keith finds him leaning against a stone pillar, panting for breath. His fingers are twisted in one of his many necklaces, tugging at the flimsy chain hard enough it suddenly snaps in his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance doesn't seem to notice. It slips from his hand, hitting the ground the same moment he doubles over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels</span>
  </em>
  <span> each one of his violent coughs as if they punch him in his chest instead. They are awful, loud, painful to hear, devastating to watch. When Lance starts sliding towards the floor, Keith's there immediately, steadying him, easing him down.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where do you want me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beside me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He's always here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Always right here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swore unbreakable oaths to make sure he would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, hey, hey," Keith says in a rush, frantically searching Lance's face. He can't see anything through Lance's hands. "Lance? Tell me what you need, I'll--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The prince shoves him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> But not before Keith sees--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance stares vacantly at his palms. All the fight drains out of him, the coughing stops as abruptly as it came, and he sags against Keith's chest, tears in his eyes, blood on his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rose petals, everywhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can't--you can't tell anyone." Lance fumbles, grabs Keith's hands in his shaking, bloody fingers. "Swear it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith knows what he's seeing, but his mind can't explain it. He shakes his head, not at Lance's request, never, but at the dozens of rose petals sticking to his skin. He looks around for the source, a toppled rose bush, a hidden flower tucked in Lance's collar Keith somehow missed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just blood-stained petals and Lance's heavy gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Keith, swear it," he says again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I--I swear it. Of course I swear it. But what--what is all this?" Keith releases one of Lance's hands and picks up a petal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's real, a coin of velvet, pure white and freckled with blood. And now that he's paying attention, Keith smells their heavy fragrance. A storm churns above them, getting closer by the second, and all Keith can smell are roses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance knocks the petal out of Keith's hand. "Nothing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nothing? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Where--where did these come from?" Keith forgets himself, forgets what they're supposed to be to one another--forgets he's supposed to hide certain feelings, not act on them. He takes Lance's face between his palms, turns him so he has a chance to examine the petals stuck to Lance's cheek and the trace of blood smeared across his lower lip. It's like they're at the river again, just outside of the inn, their roles reversed. "Lance, what--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance's breath catches again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a single, drawn moment, they stare at each other, Keith at Lance's mouth, Lance at Keith's distracted eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith watches as the words take shape:  "That's three."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thunder drums above them. Keith breaks eye contact first, looks overhead and sees the river storm is on them now, thick and black, lightning clawing the clouds apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Three? Three what?" He's still holding onto him. Something about all this unsettles him, and it isn't the faint trace of blood he sees. "Times?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance shakes his head. He pulls away, hands first, then stands on shaking legs. Keith rises with him, is there in case he falls. He doesn't. Keith doesn't move away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nothing, it's not important." Lance rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. He wipes away the last of the blood, knocks the final petals off. This isn't nothing. This isn't unimportant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tell me." Keith almost grabs him again when he asks it. His fingers twitch forward, towards him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sky growls out a warning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without looking at him, Lance dusts off his fine clothes. Lacking sunshine, his silk tunic appears more red than orange. It looks wrong on him, too sharply colored, the wrong shade of red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There's a lot to tell." Lance stares up at the sky as he says it, hand stretched out to feel the first of the rain fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It starts slowly, hissing and soft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it heaves and tumbles and plummets down, no longer a hiss but a roar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith waits for Lance to continue, his attention split between worry and amazement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rain, though it tries its best, never touches Lance's skin.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith's pacing the prince's wide chambers, chainmail clinking as he goes. A path of wet footprints follows him around the room, soaking the expensive rugs, gleaming on the tile. Lance lays on one of the many couches stuffed inside the room, lounging by the hearth, head turned, eyes focused on the dance of the flames. They match his tunic. They paint his face in their colors, all red and orange and yellow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t speaking either, back to the same games he played the entire week before Allura arrived. Keith’s tried to get him to explain what’s going on, but Lance keeps staring into the fire, his brow lowered, frowning, and refuses to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least he isn’t coughing anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith considers this the best of a bad situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, the rain continues pouring. It’s relentless, the storm, and every so often thunder rumbles through the castle, sounding like a beast from some of Lance’s favorite myths. Dragons or trolls or creatures that need slain by a knight wielding a blade made of blessed silver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith wanders back over to the couch the prince lays on and looks over the back of it, staring down at the warmth caught on Lance’s face. He looks tired; dark crescents of sleepless nights line beneath his eyes. Keith doesn’t know if he notices because they’re new or because he’s close enough to see them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lowers his hands, folds his fingers over the back of the couch, squeezing harder than he means. “Will you talk to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance glances up at him. “I told you not to worry about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. You said it was nothing. Coughing up. . .” Keith almost can’t say it. “Rose petals. . .that isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That’s--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My problem,” Lance interjects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith scowls. “Which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> problem. That’s how it works.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance flips a hand at him. He looks away and that frown renews its intensity. “It’s not. I can deal with this myself. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> been dealing with it myself for--” He stops. Tries again. Truth hidden behind deflection. “I’ve been looking into it. I don’t think it’s a curse or anything. At least, I can’t find mention of it in the books Samuel brings me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait.” Keith moves around the couch, then kneels before Lance. That odd look crosses his face again, but at least he doesn’t shut his eyes or turn away. “Does Samuel know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha. No. He thinks I’ve. . .what’s he say, ‘developed a curious interest in the unusual’? You’re the only one who knows.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which, Keith understands, means he’s the only one who’s caught him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long has this been happening?” Since Lance is finally speaking, Keith tries his luck. “It. . .it looks violent. There was blood--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just that time. It hasn’t. . .always been so bad.” Lance frowns. He shuts his eyes. And when he does, Keith takes the second he’s granted to really look him over, searching for new signs of strain he’s missed before, or that Lance’s carefully tried to hide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just looks tired. So incredibly tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith wonders if he’s slept as much as he’s eaten the past few nights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s eyes open, and he catches Keith’s worried stare. The odd look melts away, and. . .there he is, the boy from the market, the prince Keith watches in the gardens, so cocky and sure when he summons water from the fountain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. Stop that. I’m okay.” He reaches out, gently touches the side of Keith’s face. “You don’t have to worry about me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith feels every place Lance’s fingertips rest. He’ll feel it for days to come, imprinted on his skin like a bruise or a scar, a part of him he’ll carry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes everything in him not to lean into it, to reach up and take his hand and clutch it in his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There must be something I can do to help,” he insists. “Send me some of your books. I’ll help you research. I’ll. . .I’ll go into town, ask around, see if anyone’s heard about it or if there’s a cure. If--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance pulls his hand free. “No.” Keith opens his mouth to protest, and Lance cuts over him. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Keith. There’s too much we need to do. The ball. The. . .” He grits his teeth. Suddenly, he sits up, and Keith has to slide back to get out of his way. “I have to take the princess into town and show her around the area. Mother’s scheduled boat tours and dinners. Father wants me to spend my evenings writing out the speech I need to give to the people about our engagement. If it comes to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How Lance says </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounds like he really means </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By then, he’s pacing the room like Keith had been minutes before, though he’s entirely dry and his bare feet are soundless across the floor. Keith picks himself up, chainmail rustling, in every way Lance’s opposite. The only thing they seem to share, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really share</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is this apparent unease at how quickly the wedding seems to be going. An engagement this soon? It feels purposely rushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, Luis married for love. Luis met Lisa in the village square on one of his many visits down to the harbor to inspect the royal fleet. She worked in a stall where she offered mending services for ripped fishing nets or busted clam baskets, and sometimes sold the occasional jewelry made from beads of polished coral. Lance owned some of her work, a gift Lisa gave him herself the first day Luis brought her to the castle. The entire family was given something. The Queen a string of fine peach-colored pearls collected from river oysters. Rachel and Veronica each received coral rings. The King and Marco were given beaded bracelets. And for Lance, Lisa made a special pair of earrings that he wore now, studs of pearls as gray as the stormy sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith was there the day Lisa came, and she sought him out before Luis escorted her back home. She’d been nothing but kind then, and every day following, even to Keith, who, by all social expectations, should’ve been about as noticed as the wallpaper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It brings up something Keith’s been wondering ever since Allura’s ornate carriage drew up the castle drive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why her,” he asks. He’s standing near Lance again, drawn to him as ever. There was something in his oaths about that, about becoming the prince’s shadow, never being far from him. Like all the rest, Keith takes it seriously. “Why now? If you don’t mind me speaking out of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance shoots him a sharp look. “How many times are you going to make me say the same thing, Keith?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As many times as you wish, my prince. It won’t change it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not my name.” Lance turns and steps to him. For a moment, Keith thinks he’s going to touch him again, poke his chest or slap his arm, but he just stands there, close enough Keith smells the stale odor of roses still clinging to his skin. “You said it fine earlier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he had. So much for all his walls, his control.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What’s it even matter</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s going to marry the princess and that’ll be that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Which brings up the question:  why would Lance even want him back? He’s just an orphan, nameless and poor, with no lands or titles or riches, not to mention a </span>
  <em>
    <span>man</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s exactly everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> worth wanting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he has, all that Keith can give him, is his devotion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Lance already has that, both sworn and unsworn, until the end of Keith’s days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Fine,” Keith snaps. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lance</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Will you answer my questions now? Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance stays quiet. He looks at Keith, blue eyes boring into him. When he breathes, it catches, and he presses his hand against his chest, frowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you take your oaths so seriously,” he asks instead, watching Keith, slowly shaking his head back and forth. “We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We’ve been friends for years. Why wasn’t that enough?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enough?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith looks at him, and he thinks he understands what Lance is trying to say, what he’s implying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite being careful, despite years of stamping down his feelings--it doesn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quietly, Keith tells him, “I did what I thought was best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Best? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Best</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Putting your life on the line for </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> is what you thought was best?” Lance’s voice pitches higher, furious, disbelieving. “How can you think that? It’s not--It isn’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saved my life,” Keith tells him softly. “It’s only fair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what you think? That I wanted something back? Keith, I never wanted that. I never wanted you to swear yourself to me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like a slap to the face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A slap wouldn’t hurt this bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith stands straighter. He swallows, folds his shaking fingers around the hilt of his dagger--the dagger Lance gave him the day he made his promises to stand by him and protect him, to shoulder his burdens as his own, to give his life for his if it came to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes everything in him not to tear the dagger off and toss it at Lance’s feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did he ever think. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me then, my prince.” He says it coolly, almost outside of himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance looks horrified. He scrambles, shaking his head again, his hands raised. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that, Keith, wait--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Permission to leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance falters. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keith says it again, each word dropping past his lips like a stone, heavy with all the hurt he feels, “May I have. Your permission. To. Leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance’s face falls. His eyes shine--but, no, maybe that’s only the reflection of the fire in them making them appear round and wet. Keith watches Lance's hands fall down to his sides, his long fingers taking refuge in the silky folds of his tunic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“. . .if that’s what you want, Keith,” he finally relents, after some moments pass in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Politely, Keith bows his head. As is proper. As a good little guardsman should.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What was I thinking?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Without looking back, Keith turns and strides from the room, the door slamming shut behind him, loud as the rocking thunder that chases him out.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The door barely falls shut before Lance falls against the back of the couch, grasping for balance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasps. He clutches at his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he wants to call out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wait, come back. I didn’t mean it like that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lance can feel them coming. He can always tell when they’re about to hit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, when the coughing starts, Lance knows it’ll be worse than before. He braces himself, tries to ignore the itch crawling up the back of his throat for as long as he can before the first wave hits him, knocking him in the chest like a punch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rose petals spray past his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They clot in his mouth, rub up his throat, </span>
  <em>
    <span>choking him</span>
  </em>
  <span> until all he can do is force them up, one painful cough at a time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like he’s swallowing thorns. He tastes blood and roses and everything he’s ever wanted to tell Keith.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please come back</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next cough splatters blood over the pristine, white floor. It speckles across his hands, runs down his chin.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m so sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter. Keith isn’t there to hear him, and nothing he can say or do will make this pain stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not the coughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not the hurt he accidentally caused him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And not the confession he’s carried deeper inside for years, weighing down his heart.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I took a break from my other fic, Indigo Pull, to slam this fever-dream of a story out in a couple of months. It started as a text to a friend asking, "What if?" and it spiraled into this monster of a thing, when it was only meant to be a few drabbles, if that. So, enjoy! I hope you're buckled in for a ride through some of my favorite tropes! Because, God, who doesn't love mutual pining and social class differences that keep the two could-be lovers apart? UGH!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lungs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It doesn’t get any better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If anything, Lance seems to retreat inward, becoming less and less of himself as the days slowly pass. Keith watches it happen, sees the shadows under his eyes darken more and more, until even the mica creams Lance pats over them every morning can’t cover them completely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They haven’t spoken much since the storm. Keith’s seen to it to keep all interactions as aloof as possible despite Lance’s attempts at otherwise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That very next night, when Keith showed up for his shift guarding the prince’s rooms, he'd asked the question he always asked:  “Where will you have me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Habits are hard-broken, and Keith didn’t think about it until the words were already hanging in the air, awaiting an answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The light that hit Lance’s face shot clean through Keith like a well-aimed arrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course Lance said, “Beside me.” Sounding hopeful, relieved even.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Keith didn’t fall for the bait. Or his own selfish whims.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d tilted his head, acknowledging the request, then turned and went back into the rooms to wait by the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance didn’t follow him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soft sounds of his coughing did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which is what finally broke Keith. Pushing his own hurting aside, Keith found himself in the library, stalking through the aisles, skimming over hundreds of titles for anything that jumped out at him. He looked over books of medicine, human anatomy, bontiany, histories of magic--anything that might hold some sort of clue. He carried piles to and spread them out over tables, fanned them open, flipped through the thin pages as quickly as he could, skimming over hand-written blocks of text and eyeing the drawn diagrams filling each page with information that didn’t help him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That's how Pidge, Samuel’s youngest child, finds him, just three days later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, Lance’s already looked through all of those.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith glances up. He’s braced over a thick tome of curios and myths, and the particular page he’s scanning retells a story about a man who was turned into flowers because a certain god loved him so much that he couldn’t bear seeing him die.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge’s slight form stands on the opposite side of the table, glasses catching the wavering light off the torches. It's well past midnight, and the rest of the library is dark. Pidge holds a candle much like the one Keith placed on the table, not only for the wavering light it gives but to keep track of time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has he?” Keith snaps the book shut. No use wasting more time on it then. “You’ve been helping him, too?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge shrugs. “Whenever dad can’t, sure. Interesting topics. Really all over the board, so it’s hard to help pick out something new or something that follows the backwards train of thought. Herbology? Sorcery? I thought Lance had an affinity for water, not earth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He does.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then why--?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith pushes away from the table. His shoulders are stiff, sore from spending so long pouring over books. When he leans back, his spine pops several, satisfying times. “Listen. It’s not my place to question it. I’m just trying to help him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge winces at the noises. “Yeah. All right. I thought you were supposed to, you know, be </span>
  <em>
    <span>with him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Guard duty and all that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s my night off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guards get nights off? Is that a thing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of answering, Keith arches a dark brow and gestures at himself with a smooth, head-to-toe motion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Touché.” Pidge walks around the table and joins him, glancing from the book of myths back up at Keith’s face. “If one of you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell</span>
  </em>
  <span> me what exactly you’re looking for, I could probably point you in the right direction. Me and Dad organized this entire place--there isn’t a book here that I don’t know about. And I’ve read a lot of them, too. I already know the basics, just from what dad says and what Lance asks about, but I can’t string together how they’re all connected.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith snatches his candle up from the table and turns towards the room. In the dark, all the bookshelves look the same to him. Which. . .isn’t saying much. Broad daylight paints them no better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s too much to go through with too little gain, and Keith is running out of patience. He wouldn't mind a little help, but how can he explain what's happening without giving too much away? Lance made him swear he wouldn't say anything, and Keith, if nothing else, holds onto his oaths with unshakeable resolve.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith glances over at Pidge and says nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge breathes a loud sigh, clearly aggravated. “Yeah. Figured that. Of course the prince’s own guard is just as tight-lipped.” There’s a short pause in which Pidge scans the shelves, seemingly reading the titles in the dim light cast off their candles and torches. “I have a stack I pulled for him a few days ago that he hasn’t come to get yet. Been too busy with that princess, I guess.” Pidge’s hazel eyes flash to him. “Would you like them? I know he said he wasn’t interested in curses, but I remembered something about how swamp witches curse men who defile their homes--or them--into thorn bushes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seems as good a place as any, though Keith, who more often than not accompanies the prince, knows Lance hasn’t ever stepped foot in a swamp before. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have defiled anything about a witch’s home or person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, if you don’t mind.” Keith inclines his head. “I’d appreciate it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge gestures for him to follow, then slips off into the dark, quick and sure. “No problem. C’mon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a small alcove between a break in the shelving that hides a door set in the wall. Pidge pushes it open and leads Keith into a tiny bedroom tucked inside. A messy bed is jammed against one corner, covered in ink-stained pages and open books. Stacks of even more books tower near it, holding up empty plates and saucers of half-drunk tea. Impossibly, the castle’s smallest desk has made its home under the room’s sole window, of which every inch is covered in potted plants, some in full flourish, others just a fuzz of green poking out of the soil.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge catches him looking. “Oh. Yeah. That. Sorry about the mess. Dad gets onto me all the time, but. . .who really has time to clean?” Carefully moving a teacup off one of the books, Pidge gathers five from the top of the stack and passes them over.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Keith takes them with a nod. “I wasn’t looking at that. I saw your plants, they’re. . .Nice.”</span><span><br/></span> <span>“Oh, thanks. I made them myself, actually.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>"You. . ." He frowns. “Wait. You’re--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gifted? Talented? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magical</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You bet.” Pidge bounces over to the desk, mindful of the candle, and points at all the pots in turn. “This is Armonian red leaf. It has potent anti-fungal uses if you mash it up over a fire--but it also only grows in the deepest, wettest parts of the Fens, which you'd think would make it easy to come by, but it doesn't. And this one here, I know it might look like a normal cactus, but it’s actually a sample of spiny coral that I took from the reef. There’s nothing particularly special about it, except that there’s bio-luminescent algae incorporated in its biology. Under a full moon, it glows pink if it's cold outside, or blue if it’s warm. As long as I encourage the algae to keep growing, the coral lives despite not being submerged.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re all lovely, and if not lovely, then strange, and if not strange, then apparently normal. Keith comes up and touches the heavy head of a white rose, remembering the way Lance’s mouth trembled as petals clung to his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And this one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just a rose,” Pidge explains. “My Mom's favorite.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith drops his hand. He shifts the books in his arms. It’s a little tricky holding onto them and his candle, but he figures it out. “Thank you for these.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nothing, really. Just. . .make sure to bring them back in good condition, okay?” At Keith’s bemused look, Pidge explains, “Last time, some of the pages were splattered with ink or tea or something. It was a nightmare cleaning them up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith frowns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He meets Pidge's eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge turns away, fiddles with one of the many plants, fingers smoothing over a textured leaf. Doesn't make eye contact again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith gets the sudden, unshakeable impression Pidge is lying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next morning, Keith barges into Lance's rooms unannounced. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His current guard lets him through with a small nod, assuming it's shift change, and leaves the door unmanned. Keith waits long enough for the end of his cloak to slip around the corner before he opens the door and slides inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's barely daybreak. The open archways glow with dawn's first light, a breath of baby blue the river drinks and the sea becomes. A gentle breeze stirs the gossamer curtains around Lance's bed, and as Keith walks up to it, he can see every inch of Lance's naked chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What is he doing?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They've barely spoken in days and now. . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now he's standing a handful of steps from Lance's tousled bedsheets, hearing each one of his gentle, even breaths. Was it honestly worry that brought him here? Did frustration really make him </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>impulsive?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If so, then why is he still standing there, looking at Lance's exposed stomach--the soft swells of his abdomen, the trail of hair dipping past the waist of silk pajamas--and lower, where Lance's long legs are cocooned in sheets almost too expensive to touch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants. . . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith straightens and turns and flees the room. He doesn't go out into the hall, but out on the balcony where he and Lance spend their evenings, leaning against the railing with his head caught in his hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How long he stays like that can be measured by every new color brightening the sky, how cornflower blue goes lavender goes the blush pink of Highland roses. They pass like seasons, and Keith misses every single one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the moment he hears footsteps behind him, so light and sure, his spine straightens and he lifts his head. By then, Lance has stepped up beside him, and he leans against the stone railing like it's going on midnight not midday.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Does this mean we're friends again," Lance asks, glancing over at him. "Or at least on speaking terms?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleep weighs down his eyes, musses his hair and clothes. Somehow, Lance appears softer. He melts instead of drapes, he smiles instead of smirks, and when he speaks, his voice is deep and fluid like the river at their backs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stares at the kingdom below, the gardens and the river and the thin line of the sea. It's not what he wants to look at, but if he keeps staring at Lance's rumpled clothes he might actually break apart from wanting something he cannot possibly have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was in the library most of the night last night. Pidge found me and gave me some books to bring you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance's eyes scan over him. Keith </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels</span>
  </em>
  <span> him do it, like he uses his hands instead. "I don't see any books."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They're in my room--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh? Is that an invitation?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith frowns. He turns, his hands folding into fists. "Pidge said there was something on the other ones you returned. Ink. Tea. Something."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance arches a brow. "So? Accidents happen."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith comes right out and says it: "It was blood, wasn't it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The teasing air dries up immediately. Tension stretches between them. Lance's easy way tightens, and he pushes away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he thinks about it, before he can stop himself, Keith reaches out and grabs Lance's wrist. "I thought you said it was only bad that one time?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance stiffens. Stares at the place they touch. "It was true when I said it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith squeezes his fingers;  Lance sucks in a soft, uneven breath. "So it's not gotten better?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>". . .no. Can't say that it has." Lance shakes off his hand. "But, if we're talking again, then let's talk about something else. Like what Hunk's bringing us for breakfast. Or why you're in my room so early in the morning."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Lance."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The prince holds up a hand. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Has anyone else told you that you're insufferably stubborn? Can I at </span>
  <em>
    <span>least</span>
  </em>
  <span> have my morning bath before we do this?" Lance plucks delicately at his open shirt, adjusting it like an afterthought, knotting it closed. Keith misses the sight of his flushed chest once the silk flaps draw in like a curtain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance doesn't wait for a reply. Why would he? Though he's sixth in line for the throne, he's still royalty, by blood and by birthright, and whatever he wants, he gets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And who is Keith to refuse him anything?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Lance takes his bath, and while he soaks away an entire hour in sweet-smelling suds, Keith fetches the two of them breakfast--a mix of fruit, black tea, honeyed toast--and brings up the books from his room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Lance slinks out of the steam, barely robed and rosey from the climbing warmth of the day, he smiles at the sight of the cluttered table, heavy with untouched food and open books.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stands by the table, eyes fixed on the least dangerous part about him:  His bright, blue eyes. "My prince?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance waves him off. "Nothing. It isn't important."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's what you keep telling me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance smiles mischievously. "Maybe you should start listening."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drops in a chair, crossing his legs. The robe rolls suggestively up his thigh, fabric bunching before it shows off too much. Keith blinks away, stares hard at the text laid out in front of him. It doesn't seem like Lance notices. He's too preoccupied breaking open a pomegranate, red juice sticky on his skin, the ruby seeds decadent jewels pinched between his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith bites the inside of his cheek, worries the flesh, swallowing down how much he wants to taste the sour-sweet juice off Lance's fingertips. It isn't fair how easily he falls back into this, how Lance can simply eat breakfast and it clangs all the alarms inside Keith's head. Was he even trying before? Why is it only getting worse?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The book slides away from him, across the table, and Keith glances up to find Lance watching him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was reading that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No," Lance corrects. "You weren't." He taps the corner of his eye and grins. "Your eyes weren't moving. Besides, your food is getting cold."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith glances at the plates, the shiny skins of pomegranates and pears, their cups of tea still sending up curls of steam. As if reading his mind, Lance rolls a pomegranate his way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Books can wait. Eat."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance's hand closes over his, folding them both over the fruit. "Eat," he says again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand is warm, like summer, like spring. Is it his imagination, or does Lance let his hand linger? Do his fingers tighten around his? There's sticky residue against Keith’s skin now, pomegranate juice or honey.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith takes the fruit and splits it, seeds glittering, an edible geode. "Says the one who wouldn't eat for a week." He pops a seed past his lips. It's tart and sweet and lingers behind his ears, pressure and pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance nibbles on a slice of toast. "Mh. Well. I'm eating now?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah? And why weren't you eating before?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance considers this, drags a fingertip through the honey pooled on the plate, and pops the finger in his mouth. "Nerves."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nerves?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. Nerves."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>”About what?” Lance looks at him, says nothing; Keith drops the fruit onto an empty plate and stabs a stained finger against the table. “Oh. Because of the Altean princess and the--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance cuts him off. “Yes, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>and the</span>
  </em>
  <span>’. I wish. . .Well.” He extracts a few more seeds, dropping them one by one onto his sticky toast, eyes downcast, shoulders drooping. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What doesn’t? Are you. . .” Hope sparks inside him, and everything he’s ever wanted lies waiting for it, desperate as the underbrush craves the oncoming fire. “Is she not what you expected?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence comes again, and for each soundless second, Keith feels himself start to burn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks of all the odd looks that cross Lance’s face sometimes, the ones he can’t name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks of their casual touches, the fleeting and the ones that remain, like Lance’s hand curling around his or their shoulders bumping when they stand close.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks--of what he told him a few days ago, how he was so sure Lance already knew how he felt. He still might, that hasn’t changed, but maybe. . .maybe he’s wrong about if Lance, if he--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Lance finally answers. His toast is a garden of pomegranate seeds, the empty skins gleaming beside the plate, bleeding across the white tabletop. “No, she’s lovely. Almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> lovely, actually. She seems to love Portia immensely. Altea isn’t close to any oceans, only large freshwater lakes, so it’s an entirely new experience for her, the trading ships and the reefs. I promised I’d take her out to see the coral up close sometime, and you should’ve seen her smile.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fire banks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smolders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leaves behind ashes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keith</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn’t hungry. He leaves the half-eaten pomegranate on his plate and pushes it away from him, convincing himself the sweet smell is why he suddenly feels sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see,” he says, though he doesn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For all the wistful talk of his bride-to-be, Lance isn’t smiling either. He’s looking out the arched windows, eyes trained towards the river, the ocean, feeling their currents beat alongside his pulse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you,” Lance asks, and then he's up on his feet, hands braced on the table, half-leaning towards him. His robe slips open and all Keith sees are collarbones and where shadows crowd intimately at Lance’s throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith snaps his gaze up, holds the prince’s stare, then he rises too, because it’s proper to follow the royal example. Sit when they sit, stand when they stand, leave the room only after they walk through the door. “Do I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter if she loves Portia or if it loves her back. It doesn’t matter how pretty she is or how kind or how much this helps us and her people, how our nations will be better united.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There it comes again, foolish Hope.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stabs it dead on the spot when he closes his hand around the hilt of his dagger, needing the familiar weight of it pressed against his palm. “Why not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance pushes away from the table. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Because</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he seethes, and there he goes, stomping out towards the balcony--</span>
  <em>
    <span>where will you have me?; Beside me</span>
  </em>
  <span>--and Keith follows him, his shadow on this bright, clear day. “Portia already </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> an heir. It already has a king.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds out his arms like he can pull the entire city against him:  the overrun Market Town with its seashell-crusted lanes and lean-to stalls; the expanse of summer sky and the sea glowing to match; every new ship and old, familiar face; the rose gardens and heavy persimmon trees; everything Portia is and was and will be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Allura is all Altea has. If--</span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span>--we marry. . .then I’ll have to leave this all behind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith falters. He nearly trips over the smooth tile, almost pitches himself over the railing, the realization is that heavy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe not forever. I can visit, sure, but I won’t. . .I won’t wake up to the breeze rolling in from the sea. I won’t feel the warm days. I won’t get to sink my feet into the sand and spend hours hunting for starfish or sand dollars.” Lance lowers his arms. He draws in a sharp breath, holds it, turns around until his and Keith’s eyes meet. “Now do you understand?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does. He does, and he wishes he didn't. “You won’t rule Portia. You’ll rule Altea.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which means not only will Lance lose Portia, but Portia will lose him. Keith remembers how Market Town expands when he goes to visit, how the people surge up to him like the tides, bringing their trinkets and bobbles of love. If he looks, Keith might  spy some of those same gifts, homed now on Lance’s shelves or long tables. Will he take them with him when he goes? Relocate all those silly, little things to remember when his people greeted him and came to him and kissed his rings?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will Altea love him just the same? Will they rush up to him and kiss his knuckles for health and good luck? Will they care about him at all?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lance</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance wilts, long arms draped over the railing, hands lose in the air. His robe is still gasping open, ruffling with each stir of the breeze, and for once, Keith doesn’t take much pleasure in seeing the small glimpses it provides. He stares at the gardens below them instead, where servants flock to their high lords and ladies, always a step behind carrying their drinks or their books or, in one case, a lacy umbrella to block out the relentless Portia sunshine. Dogs run races around the roses bushes, the sea lilies bobbing in their fountain plots, stopping to sniff honeysuckle buds and the mounds of fresh soil turned up by the castle gardeners. This was never meant to be Keith’s life--he’s always known this--but now? Now this place </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> his home, and he can’t think of which path his life would’ve taken if he hadn’t ran into Lance that day at the markets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doubted he'd survived.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looks away, looks at Lance instead, and finds that he’s already staring back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you made your vows,” Lance begins, “But, Keith, if you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stops him. He almost never cuts over him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but he does it now, before Lance can imply he will stay here without him. As if he could. As if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “And my vows say I will follow you from the dawn of every day until--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance says it with him, “--until the long night comes.” His eyes tighten. “There’s still time. So if you change your mind, I’d understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shakes his head. “I already made up my mind a long time ago,” he tells him, folding his hand around his dagger. “Where you go, I go. Today and every day until there are no more days. If you leave Portia, make no mistake--I’m leaving with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A feast</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Lance called it. A grand dinner to welcome the princess, followed by a night dedicated to dancing and drinking and dividing attention between all that attend. The preparations that began before Allura's arrival now come to an end, and the castle is transformed, every inch of stone polished to a mirror-shine, rugs of silver-thread forming paths through the wide halls, and even the sea-glass lanterns appear, their chambers alive with blue mage fire that doesn’t flicker out. The castle has become something pulled out of the sea,  a building of white stone carved from foam, glittering with shells and living coral bouquets, courtesy of Pidge’s clever spells.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Portia dresses to match. Flags of white and blue snap over homesteads. Market Town boasts curtains of navy and indigo, sea at its deepest. People prepare their gowns and suits, customarily in bright, canary colors, mocking the fish that flock to the reefs. Some of the most garish wander through the castle, nobility donning new silk suits dyed in sunset oranges and emerald greens. They swim through the wide hallways in schools.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The castle staff earns their own gorgeous uniforms, done in crisp sapphire blue. Others, like Shiro, are given new cloaks of shimmering, creamy velvet like that of river pearls. The other guards wear storm gray, though look no less fine in them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All except Keith, the outlier, who doesn't dress any differently than usual, fancy feast or not. He’s seen to it his leather armor is well-oiled as well as his boots, but other than that, he doesn’t share in the same excited energy as the rest of the city. And gods forbid he take part in their vanity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sees this for what it really is:  Not a welcoming celebration, but the first step towards Lance and Allura’s inevitable proposal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unlike the rest of the kingdom, this isn’t something Keith plans to enjoy. Not the upcoming feast. Not the wasted night wandering between people, keeping a careful eye on Lance the entire time, watching him light up with laughter as he and Allura spin through their mindless dances.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even Lance seems nervous again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His face is drawn, exhaustion painted beneath his eyes. His hands shake as he plucks through his cosmetics jars, searching for something he’s too impatient to find. He fusses with his clothes, takes them off, pulls them back on, throws his jacket across the bed seconds before he follows it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s when Keith finally comes over and uncharastically sits at the end of Lance’s bed, tugging the jacket from beneath him before he ruins the fine fabric with wrinkles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Talk to me,” Keith asks. “Because if you keep this up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> might start pacing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance peeks at him from over his arm. Keith sees his frown pinched in the place where his eyebrows come together. “Go ahead. Maybe if you do it, I'll stop.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s how it works, my prince.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance sighs heavily. His face disappears again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just one night. A few courses, a few dances, a few hours talking--you love all of that.” Keith nudges him. “Come on. We’re expected downstairs soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance’s shoulders tense. A single, hard cough punches past his lips, and the jacket slips from Keith’s fingers as he grabs him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance rolls away when he touches his shoulder. “Don’t. I’m fine.” He sits up to prove it. There’s no blood, no petals. Nothing but the pain twisted on Lance’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith can’t stand to see it. It’s just as bad as everything else. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “My--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Lance holds his throat, takes several, long breaths through his mouth. There might not be any petals clinging to his skin but he l </span>
  <em>
    <span>smells</span>
  </em>
  <span> like them, like roses picked straight from the garden. “Lance. My name is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lance</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at him, tired eyes expectant, and then disappointed when Keith says nothing in return. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance shakes his head and rocks to his feet, snatching the jacket off the bed. “Forget it,” he murmurs and starts to walk away, once again clutching his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn’t know why it’s so important to him, but what he does know is that having Lance upset at him, especially now, when so much else weighs against him, is something Keith can't bear. He rises, and as Lance shrugs the jacket back on, the light blue fabric stark against his warm skin, he says, “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to, Lance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith watches him grow still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watches Lance lift his head and look at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He, for the first time in the last few days, watches him smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wish that were true,” he says. “I really wish it was. But, hey. Come here a second.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith follows him through the rooms, curious. Lance wastes no time, dives into one of his two closets, and he returns with heavy purple fabric draped across his palms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn't make sense of it until Lance quietly steps up to him and snaps the cloth around his shoulders. It's exquisite, shot with gold-thread, and clasps shut with an amethyst brooch just below his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith touches it, eyes wide. "Lance, I can't accept this--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And why not? I had it made specially for you." His hands smooth out wrinkles over Keith's shoulders, and there's a soft light to his face, fueling the small smile that pulls up his lips. "Violet, for your eyes."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Warmth hatches in Keith's stomach. "But violet is a noble color. I shouldn't--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course you should. Look here. I had the tailors line the inside with hidden pockets, because I know how much you love your knives, and the entire thing's been rubbed down with linseed oil to keep it weather-proof." Lance pulls his hands away, fingers fluttering, almost like he just then realized they were still touching. "Consider it a replacement for the one I never returned to you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith never asked about it just like Lance never brought it up. The cloak Lance wore out that night to the Inn had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> cloak, timeworn and too small besides, so it hadn't mattered when it suddenly disappeared. Keith knew why:  Blood is impossible to wash out, and he could only imagine how much he'd bleed on it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, this is a far too fine replacement for some second-hand thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith starts to shrug it off, then stops when Lance cuts him a look. "You didn't have to replace it. It was old, barely hanging on by the threads."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And now this one will see you through many more years. Besides, the color suits you," Lance says, throwing him a playful wink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words are out before Keith swallow them back:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"As much as blue does you, my prince." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance blinks, stunned, and goes to say something, probably just as silly and good-humored, but a knock sounds at the door, heavy and urgent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The muscles tense up Lance's jaw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A prolonged moment passes--Keith gets the feeling Lance is stalling--before Lance bids whoever it is to entee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> A herald steps inside the room. The man bows, apologizes, and expresses the rest of the family is waiting for Lance to come down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, Lance looks miserable. His hands tighten. His breathing sharpens. And he just barely holds back a frown before replying,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Tell them we're on our way."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The herald bows once more and backs out of the room. "Of course, sire."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They're left alone again, but this time, something's changed. The good mood is gone. Lance walks away from Keith, leaves him standing there in his new, heavy cloak, needlessly fussing with his circlet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith gives him a few moments and whatever distance he pulls between them. He rubs the fabric of the cloak between his fingers. It's not silk or velvet or satin, but sturdy cotton. He realizes that it isn't like the flashy cloaks the other guards wear--this isn't an ornament piece.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was made to be used.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance really did put a lot of thought into it, in every little detail.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Biting back his own smile, Keith walks up behind Lance, spends a second watching him smooth back the curled ends of his hair. "Are you ready," he asks when Lance's hands finally still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I suppose." He turns, flicks out his arms so the jacket sleeves fall into place. "Let's start the beginning of the rest of my life."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kitchen staff outdid themselves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stands with the rest of the castle guard against the whitestone walls, arms straight at his sides, silently keeping tabs on what goes on in the room. Which means, really, his eyes are fixed on the back of Lance's head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dinner is split into eight courses, each one looking--and smelling--better than the last. Portia is renown for its blue salmon, and it finds its way into buttery stews, flaky pastries, hearty pies. Roasted leeks and green onions garnish a whole suckling pig, the skin crackling with spices and fragrant herbs. Guinea fowl crowned in a red wine sauce are placed on nests of lemon zest salads. Tiny scoops of lime julep cleanse the pallets before the three desserts arrive, all at once, crowding the already busy table, plates stacked high with tiny cakes and syrupy confections Keith doesn't know the proper name for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's sweet rolls, too. The air tastes like honey and cinnamon and pralines. Keith's stomach lurches pathetically, each time he breathes in the smell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing them, Lance glances over his shoulder at Keith, and the two share a secret smile before Allura pulls his attention away with something she whispers in his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though Keith doesn't eat with the rest of the royal family, has never except the times Lance takes his meals in his rooms or plans some elaborate picnic when the two of them are out, he'll still find anything he could possibly want from the feast in his room later that evening. The staff gets the scraps, so nothing goes to waste, but sometimes Lance makes sure Hunk sets aside some fresh meat pies or soup or warm, fluffy bread. It's something he's always done for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If you come with me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he'd said, all those years ago, </span>
  <em>
    <span>then I'll make sure you'll always have something to eat.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Lance always kept to that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dinner begins to wind down. As the staff clears the empty plates and the conversations turn drowsy, Keith pays special attention to Lance. This is when, as the court digests their splendid meal, Lance will rise and take center stage with his prepared speech welcoming Allura to Portia. Step one of the courtship.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then comes the rest of the fun. The dancing and the champagne, the teasing smiles, the fleeting touches. Let the court see what's happening. Let the kingdom of Portia mistake this for love taking root and not an act. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Let Keith not look too hard their way all night and begin to mistake it, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that it matters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why should he care?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he does, and because he does, he's the first to notice Lance rise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's still some finishing their desserts; the closing tea hasn't been served, either, Keith notices. Is Lance planning to say his speech early?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance catches his parents eye, inclines his head, and they assess. He leans down and murmurs what's most likely an apology into Allura's ear, swift and sweet, and then turns and promptly leaves the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith breaks from the wall and follows him out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance glances back at the sound of Keith's footsteps. He clenches his hand around his throat, his tan skin taking on a sickly cast from the blue-fire lanterns. He looks--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance ducks into the nearest room. It's a sitting lounge, tiny and choked with chairs and couches and comfortable cushions tossed all over the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't make it to any of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a heaving cough, Lance drops to his knees just as the petals start to fall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith bolts across the room, Lance's name punching past his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith slams down beside him, gathering Lance up in his arms, smearing blood all over his brand new cloak. He doesn't think of the stains, won't until days later, when he sees them muddying the hemline and remembers this exact moment in sharp clarity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance wheezes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's clawing at his throat, hacking up more and more petals. It doesn't end. They keep coming up with every cough, and Keith finally understands the severity of it:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This curse, this dark magic, whatever it is, it's suffocating him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> been. For days. Weeks. Months.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith remembers every time he heard Lance's breathing hitch. The sleeplessness painted under his eyes. His sallow skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Lance, smiling through it all, deflecting Keith's worry, trying to handle it by himself, all while it slowly killed him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The anger hits sudden and fire-bright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith clutches Lance's shoulders, fingers digging in. "You weren't going to tell me. You were just. . .you were going to play it off until--until--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance turns his eyes up to him, glazed over with tears. He shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His quivering fingers trace along Keith's jaw, smearing blood, and he leans up like he wants to press his lips there instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm. . .sorry. . . but I have to. . . tell you. . . ." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words come to an abrupt halt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance twists away and retches, stomach spasming, hands pawing senselessly at the floor. Without thinking, Keith drums his back, and the hit dislodges whatever it is caught in his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He vomits full rose heads. . .blood-soaked rose heads that skitter across the floor like stones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stares at them in horror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance falls quiet and still, half on the floor, half uselessly bundled in Keith's arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Lance--" Keith shakes him. Grabs his face. His blue eyes are glazed but he doesn't look up at him--he doesn't look at anything at all. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lance!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he realizes--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance isn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Keith turns and starts screaming, his voice carrying through the castle halls, begging for a healer, a physician, </span><em><span>someone, anyone</span></em> <em><span>please! Save him!</span></em></p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith soon learns the pink markings painting Allura's sharp cheekbones are, in fact, a vestige of divinity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She saves Lance's life with a touch, those markings going from pink to blazing white, bright like the relentless glare off the sun though without the telling heat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She lays her hands against Lance's chest, fingers curled at the hollow of his throat, and without a word, without a warning, Lance arches up, gasping in a grating lungful of air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith's heart leaps with him, aims and falls into his throat. The shaking starts when he hears Lance breathing again. It'll take hours to stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Lance stills. His head lolls and his eyes slip shut. But his chest moves‐-rises, falls, rises, falls. Otherwise, there's no difference than before Allura and half the kingdom rushed into the sitting room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Queen kneels on the floor beside them, her hands cupping Lance's pale face. When she glances up at Keith, her eyes are sharp with worry. "Tell me what happened. What's wrong with him?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith tells her. He tells the whole room, the King, the royal siblings, Allura who doesn't glance up from her work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We. . .we don't know," he answers honestly. "He started--" Keith glances at the blood, the rose petals littering the floor. He almost picks one up. Doesn't. He folds his hands to hide their shaking. "--he was coughing up roses, Your Grace."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King kneels and does what Keith couldn't. The rose head weighs heavily in his palm, weeping blood through the gaps between his fingers, knuckles peaked in red. "Impossible." It comes as a whisper. Keith only hears him because he hasn't left the floor by Lance's side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"For how long?" The Queen smooths her hands over Lance's hair. Though she says it quiet enough, each word is full of accusation and pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith hesitates. ". . .a few days, a week, for as long as I know, Your Grace."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And we're just now hearing about it? After--" The Queen can't finish what she's trying to say, and there isn't any need to. Keith knows better than anyone else in the room what she implies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Allura presses a gentle touch against the Queen's arm. "We need to move him," Allura says, her voice strained. "To a couch, or a bed would be better."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith's the first to jump at the command, his arms already reaching for Lance's collapsed body, circling the startlingly thin bulk of him. When did he become so thin? Why, in all the days Keith noticed Lance wasn't eating, didn't he try harder coaxing him into partaking in </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> more than water? Lance's too light. He weighs less than Keith's rapidly sinking heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could do it alone, carry Lance up the main flight of stairs leading to the prince's chambers--and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to--but Marco and Luis crowd around them before Keith picks himself up off the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They carefully lay Lance out on his bed, and Keith retreats, pressing back against the wall. His eyes never leave Lance's chest, where he measures each rasping breath. Allura stands over him, her hand against his chest, her eyes focused on something far away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He can't survive like this. I. . .can't tell what it is for certain, but his lungs aren't doing well, and haven't been for some time." Allura glances over at Keith. Their eyes meet. "Whatever this is will kill him. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> been. If we knew what was causing it, maybe I could. . . ." She shakes her head, glances back down at Lance, his face now sheened with sweat. "As it were, I can only heal the damage for so long before his body rejects my magic, or my magic fatigues."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How long?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Several eyes in the room swivel towards Keith. The King's, The Queen's, all of Lance's siblings. Keith straightens under all the attention, jaw set, determined. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Allura glances down at Lance's sleeping face, shakes her head once, then again. "A month at most. A couple of weeks at worst."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith pushes back from the wall. He desperately wants to step to Lance's beside and touch the side of his face, ghost his fingers through his hair, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But there's too many people in the room. It wouldn't be right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives Allura a nod, then starts towards the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King halts him. "Where are you going?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"To find a cure," Keith replies, as if it isn't obvious. "Lan--his highness was already looking for what was wrong with him. I told him I'd go into the city, ask around. Anything to help--he told me no." And now look where it got him. He tries not to, but all Keith can picture are blood-soaked roses and Lance’s pained face. His stomach twists. “But I can’t. . .I can’t stand by and do nothing.” He meets the King’s eye. “I won’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This isn’t asking for permission--this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>telling</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Regardless if he has the rest of the room’s support or not, he’s leaving. Right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"This isn't something you can do alone." Veronica's no-nonsense tone isn't unkind. "Let's be practical. We'll need to send a team out. Find the best healers from here to Veer. And you--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I won't stand around and watch him die!" He whirls and stares at everyone in the room. The stone-spined royalty. The medics flitting around Lance's bed. The servants that pause and stare at him, startled by his outburst. "However far I need to go, I'll go. All the way to Rhine, the Southern Barrens, even Veer--I don't care. I won't stop until I find something, anything--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You'd do that for him?" It's Rachel who asks this. She and Lance look nearly identical, are practically twins born a year, a month and a day apart. There’s a running joke around the castle about how they were supposed to be twins and the gods messed up. So they did the next best thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He saved my life." Keith swallows hard, meets every stare in the room before settling his eyes on Lance once again. His chest lifts and sinks, lifts and sinks. Allura's markings blaze with light. "It's my turn to save his."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hush falls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It puts Keith in mind of the one time Portia saw snow. How, when the silvery clouds drew in and the cold snapped, the city went quiet. People fled indoors. Market Town closed its stalls early. And Lance--he ran out onto his balcony, bare-footed even then, and stood with his arms outstretched as the first flakes fell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn't last, the snow. Once it hit the sun-warmed stone, it melted away, no more than rain. And yet, Lance didn't hide inside, nestled near the fire. He ran the length of the balcony, feet slapping, twirling dizzyingly, silk scarves whipping around him like colored wind. How old was he then? Ten or eleven, maybe, Keith a year older and out there with him, their breaths puffing into tiny clouds of steam whenever they laughed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They only came inside when the Queen found them shivering and pink-cheeked, huddled up on the railing watching the snow flutter overhead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith remembers the stern look she wore, the chiding murmur of her worry, and the firm pressure of her hands as she steered both of them into the warm chambers. She tucked blankets around both of their shoulders, called for some warm cider, and sat with them while Lance spoke non-stop about how the snow was 'magic'.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, the Queen clutches Lance's hand in her own, drawing patterns against his knuckles, wards against bad health and death. Her eyes catch Keith's, and hold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Whatever you need," she says. "Take it. It's yours."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Allura's markings dim, wink out. The room is darker for it, Lance's face pale and wrong. "If there's anything I can do as well, don't hesitate to ask."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith grits his teeth but dips his head to them both all the same, his hand curling around the hilt of the dagger that, just days ago, he nearly hurled to the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't say 'thank you’ or make any demands--he simply takes one look at Lance's pained face and leaves the room, unwilling to waste one more second standing around, doing nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Allura's attendant, a man with hair as sunny as his demeanor, brings Keith a horse within the hour, despite not being asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The fastest in the bunch," the man promises with a twitch of his ginger mustache. "I went ahead and stored provisions in the saddlebag for you. The Princess expressed your journey might be a long one. I, and on the Princess's behalf, wish you the best of luck on your travels. I hope you find what you're looking for."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn't know what to say to that, to the obvious expense of these things Allura's sent his way. He tips his head at the man in thanks, watches him strut smartly back into the castle, and understands this for what it is:  Proof of how much Allura already cares for Lance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a person or for what their marriage means for her kingdom remains a mystery.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's just about finished packing away his meager things when two more people burst out from the castle, shouting at him to wait.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith turns, and is surprised to see Hunk and Pidge bolting down the staircase, both of their hands full.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, thank the </span>
  <em>
    <span>gods</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I thought you'd have barreled off before I got the chance to see you. Here." Hunk thrusts a heavy bundle into Keith's hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smells bread, nutty cheeses, jerky. Essentials. His fingers tighten around it. All this generosity, he reminds himself, is not for him but for Lance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thank you," he says, carefully adding the food to his saddlebags. "You didn't need to--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Uh, hello? Yes, I did. What were you planning on doing? Starving out there while you ran off to gods-know-where looking for gods-knows-what? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>. This is literally the least I can do."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge juggles something too. A book, bound in soft leather. "And this is the least </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>can do."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith takes it. He flips it open. A detailed map of Veer stretches across two pages, pocked with markings for everything from its mountain villages to every spiderweb creek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An atlas.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like the food, this isn’t really for him. "Pidge, I--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge brushes him off. "Now you won't get lost. There's an index in the back that lists edible plants versus very </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span>edible ones. And I jotted down some ideas on where you can start looking. It's. . . .plant magic, right, what’s affecting Lance? Or plant-based? The Fens will be the best place to go first."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith had the same thought after talking with Pidge in the library about it, when his head was filled with thoughts of mire witches and curses and Pidge’s story. The Fens--miles and miles of nearly uninhabitable marshland--where, according to legend, the first plant magic was born. Though it isn't known for large cities or a huge population, there are scant villages strung up in the black oak trees, and if Keith has any luck about him, he might chance out and find a mire witch who knew a thing or two about how roses might come to grow inside a person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like all else Keith has to go on, it’s mere speculation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Speculation, and a direction to head towards.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith squeezes the book shut. “Thank you,” he tells them both, again. “I’ll find a cure. I promise, I--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk sets his hand on his shoulder. The touch is unexpected and sends a jolt down Keith’s spine--but it’s warm and gentle and kind, like everything else Hunk is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You love him,” Hunk says. “Don’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shrugs off Hunk’s hand. “Everyone loves him,” he sidesteps, turning back to the horse. “That’s why I--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” This time it’s Pidge who speaks. “You know what he means. Not just love. </span>
  <em>
    <span>In</span>
  </em>
  <span> love.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s obvious in the way he falls still, his hand pressed against the star marking the horse’s silver forehead. Keith drops his hand. He grits his teeth, and he looks back at the two of them--two of Lance’s closest friends--and holds their eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So. He’s not been subtle about it. Not as much as he thought he was. Not much at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And if they knew, or could guess, then who else?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk twists his fingers, laughs a little breathily. “That’s good though, right?” When Keith looks away, Hunk explains, “Because true love always wins in the end.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith makes a final adjustment on his saddlebags, tightens a strap. Then he bounces up onto the saddle, a hand twisted in the horse’s mane, the other wound with the reins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That only happens in fairytales.” He looks at Hunk’s crestfallen face, Pidge’s. “And this isn’t some story.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter if he loves Lance or is in love with him or both. If that was all it took to save him, then Lance wouldn’t have fallen sick at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He squeezes his calves. The horse responds by turning where he directs it, and he clicks his tongue approvingly. Hunk and Pidge move away like he's about to storm out of the castle gate and begin his five day journey to the Fens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can, one more person flies down the stairs, almost a moment too late. Keith only stops because her dress shines under the last traces of the setting sun, the silver lost in folds of scorching orange and violet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Rachel calls, rushing past Pidge and Hunk, who bow at her. She waves them off, barely sees them, and comes up to the side of the horse, mindful of its anxious shifting. “Here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She flings a small sachet at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Its weight surprises him. Inside rests a small fortune of coins. More than enough for a journey across the continent. Keith's fingers seize around the money, and he looks down at the princess, automatically thrusting his arm back out towards her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The horse and the food and the atlas are already priceless things he can never repay. But this? This crosses the line.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can't accept this.” He attempts to drop the bag into her hand, return the silver to where it rightfully belongs, and Rachel refuses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She clamps her hand around his and squeezes his fingers until he understands this is the only way. “Don’t be stupid,” she says with her characteristic bite. “Food spoils. Silver does not. At least think of the horse from time to time. There’s plenty there for boarding and supplies, and anything  else you may need.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But nothing, Keith.” It shocks him that she knows his name, that she says it so freely. It shouldn't because she's known him since the first day he came to the castle, watched as Lance pulled him past the gate by his wrist. But he can't remember a time she ever said it like this. “Take it. Save my brother.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her hand falls away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Keith is left with enough silver to buy a small house, a decent plot of land in Treska, if he so wanted. They trust him. Not only with this, but with Lance's life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bows his head toward her. He doesn’t say his thanks aloud; he doesn’t need to. Rachel has already turned away, her dress a comet burning through the approaching dark.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rides hard through the night for as long as the moon will let him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the lights of Portia far behind, and the stars, though many, too dim to see by, Keith calls it once the moon becomes hidden beyond the treeline. Daybreak is hours away, the sky inky black and endless between the gaps in the trees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops by a brook, and leads his horse to the cool, babbling water, absently smoothing a hand down its sweat-darkened side. Allura's attendant had been right--the horse rode wind-fast and true. He can't tell in the dark, but by the surrounding hush of the thicket, Keith knows they've made it as far as The Lull, a stretch of forestland known for its quiet and beauty, that borders Portia from a small village called Millis Turn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's a little under a half-a-day ride from Portia going west. If the horse can keep up its pace, he might shave a day off the trip. Get to the Fens in four days, not five.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With little else to do but wait until the sun starts to rise, Keith rummages around in his saddlebags for something to eat. The soft fabric bundling Hunk's gift slips under his fingers and Keith pulls it out, unwraps it and takes stock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All his original assumptions are tucked within. Bread and hard cheese and jerky. There's also a small sack of salt, for which Keith is immensely grateful. People tend to forget the value of salt until their without it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s something else, deep down in the bag, the first thing packed or the first thing hidden. Something round and sticky and spiced with the sharp smell of cinnamon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nearly drops the entire bundle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't need sunlight or moonlight to know what it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A single sweet roll, dusted with candied pecans and walnuts. Hunk carefully folded it separate in a beeswax cloth, so when Keith peels it open, honey oozes out, spills down Keith’s fingers in sticky trails.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers the look Lance cast over his shoulder at dinner, the playful smile on his lips. Keith would bet all the silver in his pocket, all the gold in Veer, that Lance asked for these sweet rolls specifically for him. Because they're his favorite. Because, to Keith, they mean more than their sweet taste. And Lance knows that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance, whose ragged breaths echo in Keith’s ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance, who turned his face away from him as the coughs came.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance, who bled across the floor, stained Keith’s new cloak, roses rushing past his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith's throat burns, grief knocking against him unexpectedly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He staggers, falls back against a tree. Bark bites down his back as he slides all the way down. He swallows hard, blinks his eyes. The steady trees around him bend and shift though there isn't any wind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last time he cried was in the market square, dust on his face, hands sticky with honey he never had the chance to enjoy, a prince watching him like it was the most curious thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, Keith slowly lifts the sweet roll to his mouth and takes a bite, cinnamon blooming on his tongue, and feels every league between him and home and where Lance lay up in his wide-open chambers without him, slowly dying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rise of Treska's dawny stucco homes do little to tamper Keith's urgency. The horse glides through the cobbled streets, passing one pink clay homes after another that Keith feels turned around, like the roads trick him and rearrange themselves whenever he blinks or the horse speeds around corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Treskans like their flare. Most of the little, pink houses have shutters painted the same hue, a color Keith can never tell if it’s more blue or green. A lovely effect, sure, one Lance would undoubtedly adore for its daring and clash, but as Keith rushes by on his borrowed horse, it annoys him more than anything else. Everything just looks the </span>
  <em>
    <span>same</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, he finds a tiny apothecary. With a sloping roof half-fuzzed with moss, it cleverly stands out amongst the noise of the rest of the strip. The building's windows are a little dusty, the floorbeds overrun with herbs and tiny, white flowers instead of the lush daffodils and irises that occupy the other homes. A creaking sign hangs on a metal post jutting above the door, reading a faded, but still welcoming: </span>
  <em>
    <span> Medicines and More!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The owner has painted small, curled ferns instead of letters, each </span>
  <em>
    <span>i </span>
  </em>
  <span>dotted with a daisy. It'd be whimsical if Keith was in a better mood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After securing his horse to a post out front, Keith makes his way inside. As he opens the door, a tiny bell clatters overhead, announcing customers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A loud series of resulting bangs announces the owner emerging from the back. She's younger than Keith expects, her hair curly, golden and free of grays. A large crate balances precariously in her arms, onto which she's piled a number of books. Even from the distance, Keith sees her muscles quaking, the weight shifting a little too far to the left. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before the books can hit the floor, Keith steps up and realigns the box, the weight of it stabbing into his palms. What could be in there that weighs so much?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh!" The owner--or so Keith assumes--peeks around her armload, pale brows raised, surprise stitched in the pink 'O' of her lips. "I didn't realize someone was here! So sorry! Let me set this down and--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you need any help," he asks. He keeps his hands braced against the crate, knowing the moment he lets go, the entire thing will take to the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The girl smiles. "That'd be lovely. I'm Marin, by the way."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith inclines his head and the girl eases the crate into his care. He takes it where Marin tells him to, and once there, she claps her hands delightedly, smiling in an easy way that tells him she’s used to strangers showing up in her tiny store.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crate, it turns out, is filled with empty, glass bottles, all of various shapes and sizes and hue. Marin beams and reaches into the box, pulling out a jar made of blue-tinted glass raised with a honeycomb pattern. It reminds Keith of the numerous bottles lining Lance's bathroom wall, the ones full with perfumed oil, and quickly looks away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Now then," Marin says. Keith glances back and finds her leaning against the counter, squinting at him in a scrupulous, Pidge-like way. "Lemme guess. Here to fetch a pain salve for your mum? Oh, no! I see the cloak. That means you’re on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>quest</span>
  </em>
  <span>, aren't you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith almost chuckles. His earlier assumption that she's young holds true in light of her bright-eyed curiosity. Marin has Lance's wild wonder, and easy, laughing way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's two days from home, and all he sees are reminders of it, tucked in everything he sees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I need information," he explains. "If you have it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marin flaps her hand at the wall behind her. There's dozens and dozens--dare Keith admit </span>
  <em>
    <span>hundreds</span>
  </em>
  <span>--of glass jars meticulously ordered by color. Red poppy petals fade color-by-color to bits of smokey charcoal down by the floor. Dust caps a few. Others are smudged with innumberable fingerprints.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I have a little of everything else, might have answers too. Go ahead. Ask away," she says, lacing her fingers beneath her chin, her bright eyes trained on him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first, Keith hesitates, unsure of how to describe it, but after he gets over how poor his wording may or may not be, realizes why would this girl even care about diction and word choice, he tells Marin everything that's been happening to Lance, how he at first coughed up petals and, finally, full roses that nearly choked him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The whole while, Marin remains silent, patient as he stumbles through his explanation. If she notices he doesn't provide names or where he's from, she doesn't seem to care. Or maybe that is part of her trade. Who is she to judge the people that come to her for help, be it in the tinctures and salves she makes, or by the advice she might provide?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Keith is through, Marin taps her fingers against the counter, smoothing over the whorls of woodgrain. Like her skin, it, too, is stained faintly green from years of mixing and grinding herbs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, she says, "That sounds like bad magic." As if it could be anything else. "I'm sure you thought of trying the Fens?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nods. "That's where I'm headed, actually."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marin drums her fingers against the counter, then her lips, glancing back at her shelves. From poppy petals to ground tumeric to the slivers of black stone, she charts the wall of jars, color by color, until she reaches the end. "Do you have a guess at the source?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith frowns. "The source?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. Most people seem to forget that magic has a starting point, a place it’s born." She glances back at him. Her fingers dance over the countertop, drawing her explanation as she speaks it. "Like, the source of day is </span>
  <em>
    <span>dawn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the source of night is </span>
  <em>
    <span>dusk</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Everything has a beginning, and a middle, and an end. Plant magic might've started in the Fens, but that doesn't explain why it's affecting your friend, you know? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Something</span>
  </em>
  <span> had to trigger it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marin slides her hands away. Through the dusty windows, afternoon sunshine filters in, a little too bright and cheerful for how Keith feels. The entire week after his father died, Portia boasted clear skies and mild temperatures, beautiful weather for anyone who wasn't mourning. Keith learned early on that the world doesn't pause itself for tragedy. Time doesn't care that you can't move forward--it certainly has no trouble doing just that, even when you're shaking at the graveside, gripping a spray of mourning violets so tightly the delicate stems snap between your fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>People think </span>
  <em>
    <span>magic</span>
  </em>
  <span> is fickle. Keith knows better than that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marin shifts, uneasy. "I'm sorry that's not very helpful," she murmurs, pulling her hands away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, don't think that." Keith looks away from the sunny outside and back to her. He's tired and anxious and itching to get moving again. But for her time, he spares her a small smile and slips her a few coins for her trouble. The silver gleams against the green stains, out of place. Marin’s gaze flicks to it, then back, a line pinched between her brows. "You've given me something to think about. Thank you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marin nods, smiles back, and Keith leaves the tiny shop before she pushes the money back as Rachel had, with even more questions than before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No matter where Keith stops, no matter who he asks, the information he collects is always the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A knot of guards enjoying a cup of warm ale at a tavern in Rhyne say something similar to what Marin does. And in Crowden, while Keith leads his horse through the busy streets, he hears the same thing three more times from the people he stops and questions. An elderly man, crooked as the walking stick he carries, admits he doesn’t know much about magic over a hot pie Keith buys him, but if he did, he’d wager a curse like that could come from only one place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of it, always the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Plant magic is Fens magic.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith spends the night at the edge of town, in the cheapest room he can rent--silver may not spoil but it does run out--belly full of mediocre food and homesickness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All night, instead of sleeping, Keith sits up in the lumpy bed, wrapped in his violet cloak, dagger laying across his palms, and puzzles over what Marin told him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A trigger?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That, for the most part, is easy. When did Lance start eating less? Sleeping little? When did he become short-tempered, grow more restless and sometimes mean?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance called it </span>
  <em>
    <span>nerves</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But how true was that, really?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith unsheathes his dagger. The fine steel swallows the light, turns mirror-bright. Keith sees his eyes reflected in the shine, the ones Lance said matched his cloak so well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brow twists up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully,  he thumbs the sharp edge of the blade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's only had this dagger for a little more than two years, but Keith takes obsessive care of it. Sharpens it no less than twice a week, as if the blade sees any action outside of training drills and practice. Like the cloak bundled around his shoulders, Lance made sure this gift was no less fine despite what it was intended for. The blue-gray steel shines, and the pommel is weighed by a polished amethyst cabochon. Keith folds his fingers around it, feels the familiar sink of its weight, and for once, can't take even the small comfort it provides.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mind churns over what Marin said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the source</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he wonders if Allura was really the cause of Lance's ailment, or if it came from something else entirely, long before she arrived.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith eyed the guards flanking either side of the wide, oak door. They eyed him right back, biting back amused smiles and feigning indifference at him anxiously rocking his weight between his feet.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You nervous, kid?” one asked, voice soft.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why would I be nervous? It’s an honor. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This</span>
  <em>
    <span> is an honor,” Keith replied. What he didn’t say was that this ‘honor’ was something he fought Lance over two weeks for. He wanted this, he’d be </span>
  </em>
  <span>good</span>
  <em>
    <span> at it, but no matter how well Keith arranged his arguments, Lance didn’t agree, </span>
  </em>
  <span>wouldn’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> agree, and brushed him off.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith figured it had something to do with what happened at the Tinner Inn. That wasn’t the best situation, true, but they both got out relatively all right. Lance lost a few earrings. Keith lost a little blood. So what? Keith, after a good, long week tucked in the castle infirmary, patched up good as new. He barely felt the tug of his new scar whenever he moved, and if he did, it only burned a little bit and was easy to ignore.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance was the one that seemed to feel it more than he did.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Unconsciously, Keith pressed his hand where it lined his belly. The two guards watched him do it. Keith watched them back.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah. An ‘honor’,” the same one replied. He scratched his throat. At first glance, Keith didn’t notice the man’s own scars, hidden under the thick, dark curls of his beard. “Better get used to all that mess. You’ll be getting more.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith dropped his hand. “Gladly.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The guards exchanged looks, but if they planned on saying anything else to this headstrong orphan from Market Town, they didn’t have the chance:  A herald’s voice lifted from inside the room, announcing Keith’s name, and the guards pushed open the doors for him at its cue.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They nodded at him, and Keith walked through the doors, trying not to squint at the sunshine glaring brightly off the white marble floors. He swallowed around the rising lumb of his heart, lodged up there in his excitement, his--yes, he’d admit it--nerves.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> <em><span>Only a handful of other people waited on him inside the throne room. Takashi Shirogane, standing sentry next to the Queen’s occupied throne. The herald., adjusting his heavy, powdered wig. A scribe. A couple of servants tucked back against the wall, nearly invisible in their stillness. </span></em></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And Lance, watching him from the top of the dias, his face carefully impassive.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He and Lance went over the steps Keith needed to take, where he needed to stand, when he needed to kneel, to speak or breathe or look Lance’s way. It was, as Lance expressed sourly just the night before, a </span>
  </em>
  <span>ceremony</span>
  <em>
    <span>, though the only people who’d attend it would be those needed to make it legally binding.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p><span>“Because that’s what it is,”</span><em><span> Lance had said.</span></em> <em><span>He and Keith sat out on the balcony, the sea breeze toying playfully with their hair, the sky freckled with as many stars as Lance’s cheeks and shoulders. They rested on their knees, facing each other, Lance’s hands gripping Keith’s tightly. </span></em><span>“It’s a contract. You get that, right? When you say those vows, you’ll be bound to protect me. . .no matter what. . .</span><em><span>forever</span></em><span>.”</span></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith had shifted, a stitch of pain rolling up from the scar on his belly. Lance made it sound terribly grave, like a sentence in the castle dungeons, not something he had already planned to do since he was nine years old.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Didn't Lance see that? This was the only thing Keith could do, the only thing he was good for. It was what he’d been made to do. Fighting. Protecting. He’d done it once already. The scar he now wore said as much.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The herald prompted him forward. Keith went without hesitation, stepping up the smooth steps and stopping right in front of where Lance stood. They locked eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“State your reasons for this audience,” the herald said, as if this whole thing hadn’t already been planned far in advance.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith spoke to Lance alone. He stared at him. Lance held his eyes, his face still impossibly blank. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Where did he tuck his warmth away, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keith wondered. “I came to swear myself to prince Lance of house McClain, first of his name, son of the white isles and the great kingdom of Portia.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The herald nodded. The scribe’s pen scratched across a roll of parchment, recording this entire exchange. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Legally binding</span>
  <em>
    <span>, as Lance had said. And here, the contract, which he and Lance would both sign once the theatrics of a public announcement were through.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Very well. And what do you say to this declaration, sire?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance inclined his head once, permission to continue. “I will hear his vows.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was only for a moment, a fraction of time between when Lance dipped his chin and lifted it, but Keith saw it all the same--the moment Lance’s eyes tightened.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith bowed back. He’d read the vows of other knights, and he repeated them now, as was expected of him. “If you will have me, I promise my life into your service. I will be your shield and your blade and your confidant from this day, until there are no days. If you’ll have me, I vow to protect you, to honor you, to be by your side, to give my life for yours if it comes to it. From now until the long night comes, I swear it.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance’s fingers slipped into his long sleeves.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The herald turned to the prince, but before he could ask him anything, Lance answered Keith’s offer.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I accept,” he said. Even though Keith knew he would, his heart leapt again at those two words. “And in return, I swear to you that my house will always have room for you, that you will be welcome wherever I am welcome. My table will be your table, my food your food. I promise that I will never ask anything of you to harm your honor or anything needlessly cruel or unjust. I promise not to take any of what you vow for granted. I swear this on this day until the end of days, until the long night comes.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The herald clapped his hands. “Then so shall it be.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After the herald spoke, Keith knelt, exactly as Lance told him he needed to do.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Keith watched Lance turn. One of the servants peeled away from the wall and passed him something.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When he turned back around, Keith saw a fine scabbard balanced in Lance’s hands, the expensive leather shiny and new. Knights were given swords of impossible value, the blades steel, the pommels set with rubies or emeralds or sapphires as blue as the Portian sea, as a way of repaying a life of servitude. Again, it was all part of the act. Nothing material can pay for a life. Lance said as much as he squeezed Keith’s hands beneath the swollen moon, his face painted in silver light and worry.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Even so, that didn’t stop him from giving Keith something that day, under the watchful eyes of his mother and Shiro and all the other witnesses. It was, afterall, part of the ceremony. The theatrics. The parts they now played.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Except what Lance gave him was no sword.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was an expertly crafted dagger.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lance always did know what Keith liked best. Close combat and knives. Like a thief. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The scabbard passed between their hands, and with it, the understanding that they were now bound together, under the eyes of the kingdom and those in the room, by </span>
  </em>
  <span>law</span>
  <em>
    <span>, from that day until the end of days.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Fens aren’t what Keith expects. He’s seen the maps, the marsh-choked illustrations, heard Shiro talk about the mire-muck with a less-than-fond attitude, but it all does little to prepare Keith for the moment his horse’s hooves first sink into the mud and </span>
  <em>
    <span>stick</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gravity shifts. His balance kicks forward when the horse rocks and stamps its legs, realigning itself with the harder packed road, huffing indignantly the entire time. To be fair, it’s Keith's fault. He wasn’t paying attention to the sudden shift in landscape, caught up in his own head as he was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a soothing hum, he rubs the horse’s neck until it calms, then passes it an apple for good measure, murmuring to it softly the entire while. And when it stops kicking its feet, Keith slips off the saddle and leads it along the road, hand twisted firmly in the reins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He. . .doesn’t feel any better now that he’s here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world has shifted from scrubland into muddy, stagnant ponds teeming with mosquito larva and gnats. Mangrove trees rise from the water on stilted roots, their branches heavy with moss and spiderwebs. Brightly colored ivy crawls up the trees, poison red and yellow. For a place that boasts the first plant magic, there’s a significant lack of flora that don’t scream ‘eat this and die’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe coming here was a mistake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then. . .Pidge and all the others said this is his best shot. If there are answers for Lance’s condition, they’re hidden somewhere here, in the mire-water and weed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith just has to find them, or someone who knows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking around the desolate area, he comes to the conclusion pretty quickly that that’s easier said than done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, he presses on. He doesn’t have a choice in the matter--if the answers are here, then Keith will comb through every one of the puddles of still water if it means he can fish them out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He only hopes that he isn’t too late.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sunlight burns across his eyes and startles Lance awake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first thing he’s aware of is how crowded his room feels, how, when he turns his head, all he sees are bodies swarmed around him, some shoulder-to-shoulder, some leaning over him, touching his face, his throat, his chest, feather-light in his hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second thing is that his chest </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when he tries drawing in a deep breath, it sticks and he has to turn and cough it back up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone’s there, pressing a handkerchief over his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His tongue tastes like new petals and old coins, and when the kerchief withdraws, Lance understands why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers the dinner, Keith following after him, the pressure in his chest and then--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mijo</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s good to see you awake.” Warm hands fold over his. “How are you feeling? Is there anything we can get you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance turns, blinks. His eyes are having trouble adjusting to the bright room, the hapless shapes of shadows moving around him. But the voice beside him is as familiar as seeing his own face in the mirror. As familiar as the pull of the sea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamá?</span>
  </em>
  <span>" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's not called her that since he was small, since before he pulled Keith from the market and gave him a home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance stifles another cough. His mother is ready with her handkerchief, lifting it to his mouth, but he brushes her aside with a weak twitch of his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm here, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mijo</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Tell me what you need."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he needs?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance blinks and looks around the room again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can tell he's in his bed. And he can tell that he's been here for a while. When he tries to lift his hands again, he can hardly manage it. But, still, he folds his fingers around his mother's hands and pulls them down, cradles them against his chest, over where it hurts the most.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>". . .what. . .what happened," he breathes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't remember?" He shakes his head, and his mother squeezes his fingers. "Oh, Lance. If it wasn't for Allura, you'd--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance involuntarily jerks his hands back. "What?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She left just a moment ago to rest. She's the only reason. . .she. . ." Lance watches her shake her head. Her hands smooth across his brow, brush aside his hair. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't understand what she's implying, and he wants to ask, only his eyes have drifted around the room again, and Lance notices something amiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The people bustling around him wear the burgundy robes of the castle healers. His mother sits in a silver dressing gown, her crown gone, her fingers heavy with rings. And though he sweeps the room twice over, Lance doesn't see the comforting sight of black armor, the quick flash of violet eyes, a knot of wild hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Keith," he says. "Where's Keith?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's a pause. A drawn breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance's throat crawls. His chest sinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mamá? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Where is he?" He pushes himself up--or tries. Vertigo hits him, all at once, and the room spins away from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother grabs him, steadies him, coaxes him back down. "Gone, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mijo.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" At his panicked look, she explains, "To find a cure for this. . .this curse you have. He left the day you collapsed. He volunteered to do it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Volunteered? He. . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Those stupid vows.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith was always taking them so damn seriously. Of course he'd run off at the first chance he had, knowing Lance would refuse to send him away otherwise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith always asked him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where will you have me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why didn't he understand what it meant when Lance said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beside me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then, Keith didn't realize a lot of things, did he?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I should have told him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's as Lance is thinking this--but moreso, thinking about Keith, about his face and how it gives when he smiles--when the pressure becomes too much, and he rolls over, away from his mother's worry, and heaves into his hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he slips into unconsciousness this time, he does not wake back up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It happens hours later when Keith is checking the atlas for landmarks to go by, as the afternoon sun bakes the dense air around him into an oven of discomfort.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An itch crawls up his throat, a swoop of pressure clocks him in the chest, and he turns his head, a loud punch of a cough bursting past his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks nothing of it until he recognizes the taste on his tongue, the perfume of roses thick enough it makes Keith retch again. And then he sees them--the tiny, white petals bobbing in the water around his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sucks in a breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of all the possibilities, the theories, the wild-shot ideas, never--not once--did Keith ever think it was contagious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it only makes sense. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They spent so much time together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Keith was the one who found Lance the first time, had brushed the petals away from his trembling lips as he gasped for breath. His blood soaked the hem of Keith's purple cloak, patches of rust against the fine fabric Lance spent all that care and thought getting for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, out of anyone else, he'd be the next infected.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sensation disappears as suddenly as it came, and Keith's left standing there, fingers wrapped around his throat, stock-still as the mangrove trees crowding around him. He waits--and nothing happens.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it doesn't, for a time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's hard to discern where he's been from where he hasn't. The landscape, lacking inspiration, repeats itself much like Treska but more unforgiving. There are the trees and their bleached, high-rising roots. There's the beautiful, deadly ivy. There's an endless supply of muddied water, not only underfoot but trapped in Keith's boots. When he stops for the night, he shucks them off and pours out a healthy dose back into the soil. His poor toes are pale and aching from spending so long submerged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another thing he didn't prepare himself for is the relentless humidity. Fool as he is, Keith refuses to shed his cloak and that, combined with his unbreathable leather armor, has him sweating in places he never knew existed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> is damp. His clothes, his skin, gods-forbid he travel down that line of thought anymore than he has to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a way, it makes him think of the sea and the fine mists that'd sometimes swallow the kingdom during the cooler seasons. And because he thinks of the sea, Keith thinks of Lance, and he wonders if this humidity would bother him or if the moisture in the air would refuse to touch him like the rain did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, he almost expects the coughing to come. He's sitting up when the first wave hits, his hands cupped around his mouth, catching the petals that push past.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's their bright, red color that surprises him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Red?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why red?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Does it mean anything? Or is the color somehow tied to the land, the magic as close to home as it's ever been?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith flicks the petals away from him. Wipes his lips. Spits the taste out of his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And waits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waits as the heat finally dissipates enough that he can snag a few hours of restless sleep. He waits as he stands unsteadily by his horse the next morning, humming soothingly at it as he feeds it an apple and himself a few chews of jerky. He waits as he pulls the horse along, passing the slow-moving hours of daylight by searching the land for a village or, at the very least, a lone hut slung in the trees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finds neither of those things the second day, anymore than he did the first.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he figures something out relatively quickly:  whenever he thinks of home, his chest gets tight, and his breathing stutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And whenever he thinks of Lance, he coughs and coughs and coughs, petals staining his hands with red.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A source</span>
  </em>
  <span> translates easily into </span>
  <em>
    <span>a reason</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn't know why it took him so long to puzzle it out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes a lot of sense now that he thinks he understands what the magic is trying to tell him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's found days after, slouched over the horse's neck, gasping for breath. No matter what he tries, Keith can't seem to catch it. And by the off chance he draws in an expanding lungful of air, it's too much and sends Keith into the same, hacking coughs Lance had the night Keith fled the kingdom. Sometimes there are petals, red and new. Sometimes, he can't stop until his throat tears to shreds and his mouth fills with the copper tang of his own blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, he pushes on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because if Keith grows worse by the day, so does Lance, and Keith won't rest idly by while Lance might be that much closer to--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He won't allow himself to think about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He won't allow himself to stop. Not to rest. Not to eat. Barely at all to drink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that's what does him in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something stabs him in the shoulder, sharp with intent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He groans, shifts, feels every stiff joint of his spine snap to life as he sits up. There's horse hair in his mouth, and the reins, wound tightly around his fingers, have neatly cut off the circulation in his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Overheard, the sun is relentless and muggy green, heating the low-hanging mists bubbling up from the mire. Keith's not sure if he's sweating or if the humid air is to blame for the swampy taciness of his skin. It's probably both.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pain hits his shoulder again. He swats it away weakly, squinting in the sunshine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, he lives, at least."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith jumps. He looks around, then finally down. By his hip, a gnarled old woman stands, squinting right back at him. Her face is soft and lined with age, her wispy hair a twist of salt-and-pepper tied at the back of her neck. A robe three sizes too large swallows her from throat to knees in faded, charcoal gray.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith blinks at her. She blinks back, but meanly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What? I save you from flopping off your horse and drowning in a puddle and this is your thanks? Staring and blinking and blinking and staring? Maybe I should speak to the horse, then? Will he talk better than you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shakes his head, and yet the woman remains, as stubbornly real as the walking stick she thumps against his shoulder. "Hey! Quit it!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There we go. Thought you were stupid enough to swallow a spearhead toad. Poisonous bastards. They make your tongue swell into a boot if you don't cut out the glands. Now." The woman eyes him with one milky eye, then the other. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Harumph</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Portian, I'll bet my left foot on it. Only seafolk think horses belong in a swamp. Just know, whether or not your gods pulled horses from the foam, doesn't mean you need to drag them all over the earth. We get it. We're impressed. Now leave the damn things in their stables before you break their legs."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith's head swims. He's almost certain it has nothing to do with the heat. ". . .I had to get here as fast as I could. A horse is faster than my own feet."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman hums. "I think I liked you better quiet. You talk a lot of sense. Which means you haven't been here long." She taps her walking stick against the ground, one two and three times. "Well?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith frowns. His head starts to pound. He still hasn't quite convinced himself this woman is real. "Well what?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Idiot boy! Why are you here? You said you had to rush--but not two minutes ago, you were laying half-dead over your horse's neck!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Annoyance blasts through him. She may be the only living person he's seen since he got to the Fens, but Keith's nearly ready to risk it just to turn her away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he doesn't have the chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His chest tightens. His breathing jumps. And he has only seconds to turn his head and hide his ragged coughing into his palms. His shaking fingers cage back the petals as best they could. It’s not enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like everything he's done, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn't enough.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beside him, the woman murmurs a soft, "Ah. That'd do it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Defeated, Keith lets his hands fall, all the evidence clinging to his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amazingly, the old woman leans up and snatches one up, pinching the petal and rubbing it until it flakes away. "Hm. So, you're dying. Pretty selfish of you to look for your own cure. Lemme guess. You--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith manages a croaked, "No. Not me. There's--another. He had it first. He's--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He won't say it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Lance as he last saw him, laying in his bed, his face pale and sickly, triggers another round of coughing that leaves him a bit bloodier than before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman waits, her foot tapping impatiently. "It's been a long time since I've seen magic like this," she admits, rubbing her fingers clean against her robe. "Powerful stuff. But I guess you've already figured that part out."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shuts his eyes, tries not to think of Lance and how much missing him hurts worse than anything his body can possibly do. "So, a curse."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No. Not a curse, you stupid boy. Curses aren't this strong." The spear-sharp tip of her walking stick glances off his shoulder, and he begrudgingly opens his eyes again. "This is soul magic."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Soul--?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Still don't get it?" She leans up on her toes, and hisses, as if this is some profound secret, "It's hard for the lungs to work when the heart gets in the way."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if by command, Keith's heart lurches. It pounds like a drum, punching hard enough his entire body throbs in time with each beat. "What are you saying?" It comes out as a gasp, because he's thinking of Lance again and every small look he thought he misinterpreted, every off-the-wall comment, those fleeting touches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm saying, if you know what's good for either of you, you'll turn that pretty horse around and get back to where you came from." She leans on her walking stick. Though her body seems frail from a hard life leeched away by the Fens, her half-blind eyes are unmistakably intelligent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But how do I--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Trust me," the old woman says, turning around and carefully tottering through the brackish water. Reeds bend beneath her feet. Water lilies--not the right color to be Portian's lovely sea lilies--bob out of her way. "Unless you really </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> stupid, I think you'll know what to do."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A little over a week bleeds away, bleak day after bleak day, every single one sunny and humorlessly warm. Everyone knows this is the prince's preferred weather, that if he was well, he'd be running through the gardens, his laughter strung on the wind, two separate shadows chasing his heels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there is no laughter. There isn't a second shadow waiting against the wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s only the prince, bed-ridden still, weakening by the day, and the princess of Altea, dimming right alongside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet, she holds his hand from morning until dusk, for as long as she's able, her eyes clenched shut in concentration, her markings glowing faintly, lighting her face--and Lance's--in white.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro watched this go on for days, the slow decline in them both. He stood by, if not in Lance’s rooms, then down below by the Queen’s request, tasked with keeping an eye out for any of the search parties coming home, unable to do much else. Nearly two weeks is a long time to be away, but none of the dozen groups they sent out have returned. Under any other circumstance, that might be considered good news, but as the Princess fatigues and Lance’s condition doesn’t improve, everything is unraveling. Hope starts to wane.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How much longer will Allura’s divine magic keep Lance alive? No one knows the answer, not even Allura, who continues reassuring them that she's fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I promised him a month," she'll say, and no one questions who it is she means.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The entire royal family knows. The healers, with their useless potions and failed compresses, know. Hunk and Pidge, who sneak in for visits late at night when they think no one is around so they may check on Lance themselves, know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of them wait on Keith’s return.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only so he can say goodbye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro feeds his fingers back through his hair, eyes on the distance dip of the valley. From his post up on the battlement, he can see for miles on this clear day, from the river's soft curves all the way down to the sea. If he squints, he can even discern the soft green line of a thicket far, far in the distance. He ignores the rising fear that Keith </span>
  <em>
    <span>won't</span>
  </em>
  <span> come back in time, that, when he does, Shiro will have to grab him and lead him away before he hears of what happened while he was gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hurry</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro drops his hand, grips the stone frame of the window he stands in, bearing down his teeth. He likes to believe the best in everything, people and situations, in this turning out all right. But even his positivity sounds a little forced these days. How could it survive in the face of Lance's unknown illness?  How could it remain if the worst happens, if Keith comes back a few days too late to see the prince one, final time?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And what if Keith doesn't return at all?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The roads are dangerous. Trouble likes to crowd around those who seem impatient and desperate. Shiro </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> Keith. He stood by and heard his shouts the day he left. If anyone was desperate, it was him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Please, let him be okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He isn't a pious man by any means, but he can't ignore that there's something comforting in thinking there might be something out there, listening, watching out for you, hoping for the best.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back during the war, Shiro wasted his time praying, taking all the comfort it could give him. He sang the hymns under his breath while he patrolled the encampment and when he joined his troupe for the first of the many, bloody battles, he hummed </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Trials of Tidus</span>
  </em>
  <span> for courage. He once drew invisible protections against omens and bad luck on the backs of his hands--when he still had two of them. The four-point star of their gods rested at the hollow of his throat, worn as proudly as any of his medallions of rank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite popular rumor, the day he lost his arm wasn't the same day he snapped the delicate chain from around his neck and banished his silent gods to the dirt. That came later, much later, when he lost something more important to him than faith or flesh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That day had been much like this one:  hot and endless.. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But unlike that day, Shiro doesn't stand guard until dark, waiting for the impossible to happen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's staring off at the sea, caught up in remembering, not bad days, but a few of the good--</span>
  <em>
    <span>the sky at full dusk and peppered with a thousand stars;  the deep timbre of a laugh that infects him like the wine passed between them;  hands on his hands on his face on his shoulders on his neck and in his hair, </span>
  </em>
  <span>everywhere--when he sees it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A flash of silver darting out from the trees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns, braces himself, and leans out as much as the window will allow. A partition of stone rises about to his chest, ample enough to keep starry-eyed and cloud-headed cadets from dozing off the side of the castle. Shiro grabs it with his one hand and steadies himself, squinting as the tiny object heads right towards the castle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro stares for only a moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even from a distance, he can see the slumped form of someone against the horse's back. A knot of black hair. A violet cloak billowing in the wind, the brightest thing for miles. The color of elation and disbelief made real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro runs the entire way back down to the grounds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fellow guardsmen stumble out of his way as he rushes past, narrowly avoiding his broad shoulders and sweeping arm. "Get the Queen," he shouts at them, their wide eyes following his back. "The King! Tell them Keith's returned!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That spurs them into action.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The grounds erupt into chaos. Men run up into the castle; they fetch the King and the Queen from Lance's room and lead them outside. Two burgundy robes peek from behind them, someone's forethought at calling the healers down, just in case.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk and Pidge come too, Hunk sudsy up to the elbows from dish duty and Pidge's tunic stained with hasty splashes of ink. They rush down the stairs and join Shiro at the open gate, listening as every distant hoofbeat strikes louder than the next.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's finally back," Pidge says, voice low.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you think he found it," Hunk asks. "The cure?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn't see what Shiro saw--they don't know what he knows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he says is, "We can only hope."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels like everything happens at once. The horse, racing through the gates. Keith draped over its neck. The snap of violet fabric as Keith releases the reins and starts falling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro’s there before it happens, his hand braced on Keith’s side, holding him up. Keith wheezes, and this close, Shiro sees what he couldn’t up on the battlement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Petals.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So many petals.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re caught in Keith’s hair, stuck to his face. The stink of roses wafts up from him. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth, stains tracks down his chin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The courtyard falls still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one moves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only Keith, who groans and pushes himself back. Shiro snakes his arm around him and helps him, supporting him even as Keith settles his hands against the horse’s neck, bent over, breathing hard, looking as if he’s one good gust of wind from falling over into the mud. Pidge looks at Hunk, and something passes in that look Shiro doesn't have enough time to process.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A guard standing nearby hisses out Shiro’s name in warning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That's the moment Shiro notices how silent the courtyard has become, how Keith's ragged breathing is the only thing he can hear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Really," Shiro barks at them. They've all waited for Keith to return, and now they balk away because of a few petals? A little blood? Shiro's no fool. He knows what it looks like. He knows what it undoubtedly means. But he'll be damned if he doesn’t extend a hand to help one of his own. "Healers! I need you down here, he's--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A light touch falls against his shoulder, and now it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shiro</span>
  </em>
  <span> who stills.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Please. . ." Keith's voice grates out of him. He has his face turned towards the castle, expression not so much pained as expectant. Hopeful. And like Shiro always knew, </span>
  <em>
    <span>desperate</span>
  </em>
  <span>. "I need to see him. . . .please, Shiro."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That's all he needs to hear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he isn't the only one:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk and Pidge offer their hands, and together, the three of them help Keith from his horse and up the castle steps, past every fearful look, the King and the Queen--who, out of them all, don’t look scared, only sad--and back home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything is exactly the same as when he left. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even Lance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith thought he missed him before, but it's nothing compared to seeing his face again. Nothing will ever touch the moment Hunk and Pidge lower him down onto the bed, Shiro close behind them, everyone swarmed in the room, crowded in the doorway, watching as Keith presses a hand against Lance's chest. How he nearly sobs with relief when he hears Lance breathe, when he feels his hand lift and drop,  slowly, so slowly, but there nonetheless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance is still alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which means he isn't too late.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You idiot," he murmurs, speaking low enough only Lance can hear, if he hears him at all. ". . .I figured it out. What you. . .what you wanted to tell me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses, his insides a thrum of swallowed coughs and a garden of roses that bloom at the sight of Lance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The old woman in the Fens said he'd know what to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not really.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he has a pretty good guess.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something, he thinks, Lance tried to do that night he collapsed, when he reached up and grazed his fingers down his jaw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For once, Keith doesn't care about the audience in the room, what they say to him, the questions they aim at his back. Implications have already started burning through the room at this intimate closeness. But does it matter now? Did it matter before? Or was it just Keith, finding excuses when there were none, because he was always scared he’d lose Lance, no matter how he did or didn’t feel?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It all falls away, the noises and the others standing around the room, leaving only Lance, gently sleeping, and Keith cradling his face between his palms, his thumbs dragging over the pools of exhaustion inked beneath his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s missed him so much that even touching him, even seeing him, it doesn’t help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's no hesitation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith leans into him, the prince who not only saved him from the market square all those years ago, but also gave him something to live for.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please let this be enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To those who watch this happen, the gentle way Keith brings their mouths together seems like a farewell, a small, regretful kiss of what will never happen, of what could never be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But to Keith, it's the only plan he's got, the only way he can tell Lance that he not only loves him, but he has for a very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> long time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith draws away, all that ignored hesitation rearing up, making him pull back slowly, carefully, afraid of what he’ll find, and he sees the exact moment the confession takes shape outside of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's like magic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a way, maybe it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance resurfaces like he's rising out of water. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathes</span>
  </em>
  <span> in for the first time in months, deep and sputtering. He comes </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance's fingers twine in Keith's cloak, and he blinks awake, those blue eyes taking in the nearness of their faces, the careful way Keith leans over him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Keith?" Lance rasps out his name, the single, sweetest sound Keith will ever hear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He almost wants to laugh, to sob again. But he can't. It transmutes into coughing the moment he tries, and he pushes himself away before he stains Lance's bedclothes with blood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How Lance finds the strength to grab him again, Keith will never know. He's sinking against him all the same, his face tucked in his hands, blood and petals slipping between his fingers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance sees them and pulls in a hissing breath. "No, not you, Keith. Gods, not you too."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kiss was enough for Lance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But why wasn't it for him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Soul magic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the old woman called it, and mentioned how stupid hearts really are. Keith feels his in his throat, lodged somewhere around his Adam's apple, and he pushes past the people starting to crowd around him--burgundy-robed healers called by his coughing; the worried eyes of his friends; the Queen, too, pulling the princess Allura into the room, both of them wearing their exhaustion as they would crowns--trying to spit it up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hits the floor hard on his knees. The heavy fabric of his cloak sinks around him, hides him from sight. For a delirious second, he realizes how much it might smell, saturated by the Fens and the journey there and back, the odor of roses strong, but not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> strong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His name sounds above all the noise he makes, said in several, startled voices. Only one is clear. Only one makes sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance pushes the heavy cloak off his shoulders and pulls him up. How can he touch it, filthy as it is? "Why--why is it affecting you, too," he whispers, horrified. Against Keith's flushed skin, his fingers are blissfully cool. "I thought--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance snaps his mouth shut. Lightly, he touches his own throat. Keith only remembers twice before when Lance took off his many necklaces. He’d been with him the other time, too, sneaking from the castle for an inn just outside of the city, a place where no one would look too closely at Lance's face and know him for who he was. Which was a silly, juvenile thought. The innkeeper knew royal blood the second it walked into his business, having spent years living outside of the city walls, offering the best rooms and fare to the King and the Crown Prince whenever their hunting trips kept them out too late. Lance’s bright eyes and brighter energy gave him away better than his face ever could.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait. Wait, wait, wait." Lance sucks in a breath experimentally. Holds it. Gusts it out past trembling lips. "I'm not. . . .Keith, what did you do?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, swallowing down the slick of his own blood and saliva. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The big secret is out, confessed in small ways at first. Hesitant touches, lingering looks, hours lost in deep conversation out on the rounded balcony outside these very windows. And he thought--he convinced himself the entire way back, that Lance loved him back. That that’s what </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul magic</span>
  </em>
  <span> boiled down to:  a love so strong it took root.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith turns his face away again, heaving petals onto the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, Lance coaxes him back around, forces him to look up at him. Blood drips down his lips, traces pink paths down Lance's fingers all the way to his wrists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's only a second of this, of looking and being </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Lance breathes out, "Oh, Keith." Then does exactly what Keith did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soft give of Lance's mouth against his own causes him to gasp his lips apart in surprise, and when Keith realizes that there isn't anything stopping him from doing it, he does it again and again and again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathing, yes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But more importantly, kissing Lance's full lips, feeling the delight of how they slot together as if each time is their first time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They forget about their heavy hearts and the roses, the agony of the last month, the dying and the nearly dead and the distance that once seperated them, making everything worse than it had to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They forget about the people in the room, Lance's family inches apart from where they're bundled up, hands locked with hands or twisted for purchase in a shirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere along the way, Keith finds it doesn't bother him as much as it used to, this sensation of eyes crawling up his spine. He’ll welcome it, if this is what happens during it, Lance crowding close, his soft noises stealing the flavor of roses off his tongue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance breaks away first, and it's devastating to see him, lips parted, throat pink, his blue eyes shining like the sea at high noon. He's so unflinchingly beautiful that Keith, for a moment, is struck by it all over again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're an idiot, you know that?" Lance laughs around the accusation, rendering it more teasing than true, however correct he is. Keith barely wonders about it before Lance slings his arms around his shoulders and jerks him forward. "To be fair, I guess I am, too. We're both so stupid."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith couldn't agree more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like this, Keith feels every breath Lance takes, his chest expanding against his own, every exhale fluttering across his throat. Lance brings a hand up, knots it in the back of his hair, and Keith does the same, only his fingers tangle in silk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry I left," Keith says, and he presses his face against the crown of Lance's head, "I should have stayed with you, I should've--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's okay, Keith. It's okay." He feels rather than sees Lance turn his head, his fingers tugging at his hair. "Everything's okay now."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone clears his throat, and only then does Lance lean away, just slightly, enough to let light wiggle between their bodies once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith lifts his eyes, and finds the King crouched beside them, his hands braced on his knees. He wears gold as Lance wears gold--around his throat and wrists and fingers. Maybe it's a hereditary thing, knowing how well it pairs with their dark complexions. Lance might favor his mother in looks, but in that moment, the soft expression on the King's face is one Keith's seen a hundred times on Lance's.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Around him stand the rest of the royal family. Veronica and Rachel glance at each other and share a smile. Marco looks embarrassed, his face red from nose to throat. Luis just laughs--a low, rebounding noise the stone-walled room gives back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Off to the side, Hunk clutches his chest with one hand and scrubs his eyes with the other, Pidge lightly patting his back. Shiro has his fingers in his hair, expression a mix between relief and surprise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Altean princess hovers by the Queen’s arm, their hands clasped between them, and when Keith meets her eyes, he expects to find her affronted or disgusted and instead finds her smiling, looking relieved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Any unease Keith feels ebbs away. It goes out like the tide, receding until the crash of it against his heart is nothing more than a thin line of memory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if sensing it, or feeling it himself, Lance fumbles with their hands, sliding their fingers together like a net made out of every wish Keith's ever made.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Papá, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I'm--" Lance shakes his head. Keith notices his earrings, diamonds that shift between white and blue, Portian colors. "I can't. . . I couldn't ever--I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span>--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's all right," the King says over Lance's stammering. His hands fall onto their shoulders, one for each of them. The weight, heavy and familiar, reminds Keith of his own father, sparks memories he buried down deep, nearly a decade ago. "There are things far more important than politics."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The King squeezes Keith's shoulder. By the soft look on Lance's face--see? There. The expression mirrored--he must do the same to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith wonders what they mean, what half-thing Lance almost apologized for. It must relate to the two of them, because Lance turns that fond look on Keith, leaning his weight against his shoulder, and Keith promptly forgets what was even said. Or half-said. Implied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s other things occupying his attention, and more things to worry about. Like what this new thing means, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span> it means something, which it must, because Lance refuses to budge off the floor after the King draws away and offers to help them up. Keith’s quietly grateful for that. With Lance pressed against him, it’s hard to convince himself this is all another one of his desperate dreams. The noises in the chamber, all those voices layering over one another, asking things and laughing and some even thick with tears, ground Keith in the moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s here, right here, where he was always meant to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At a point, someone thought to call for food. Heaping bowls of steaming stew and loaves of freshly baked, buttery bread look so appealing that, at first glance, Keith’s stomach cramps. The plates are lowered before them, set right on the stone floor. Lance is the first to grab a roll. He splits it and passes Keith half.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” he says softly. His long legs are tucked beneath him, folded in a way that the tops of his knees press against Keith’s thigh. “Eat something before the healers pass out from worry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One </span>
  <em>
    <span>harrumphs </span>
  </em>
  <span>at this, but otherwise doesn’t comment. In the time it took for the food to arrive, both Lance and Keith were examined twice-over, and the healers found nothing wrong with them other than signs of fatigue and exhaustion. Allura knelt in front of them both, one then the other, and touched her fingers to their foreheads. Keith learned how her magic felt, all buzzing and warmth, as it washed through him, easing his aches and stiff back, erasing the young bruises from his knees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He learned, too, that she held no resentment towards either of them. Her joy came off as genuine, and it truly was. Otherwise, why heal them at all? Lance started to say something to her as she rose up, but she shook her head and told him, “We’ll talk later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their roses were gone, their coughing silent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn’t smell their perfume anymore. Not on him. Not on Lance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a little time explaining it, but as Keith fumbles through, telling everyone about the mire witch and her offhand remarks and the blurry journey back home, Lance holds both of Keith’s hands between his own and makes his own confessions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought it was something like that,” he says, looking down at their fingers. “That night, I tried to tell you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith squeezes his hands, and he holds his breath for a second before it rushes out, a miracle he always took for granted. “What? You knew?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I had a guess. I realized it always got worse when I thought about you. Or was near you. Or. . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was the same,” Keith murmurs, “for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance puffs out the smallest laugh, more a relieved sigh than anything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally at ease, Lance’s family find places around the room to sit. Rachel and Marco pile on the bed at their backs, and quickly steal two of the rolls for themselves. The Queen and Veronica, with Hunk’s help, pull one of Lance’s low-backed couches closer, while the King excuses himself, Luis following him out, Allura called to join them. She leaves, but at the door, she pauses, glances back at them, and her smile blooms full again. Hunk and Pidge sit on the floor across from them, each holding their own plates of food after Lance insisted they eat with them, too. There’s plenty to go around, and Lance has always been one to share.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes Keith remember the times he and his father would sit around a small fire, holding sharp sticks speared with rabbit meat over the flames until the skin blistered and spit. Those nights were filled with stories of his mother, the sweet year she spent with them before the military conscripts stole her away, and how much his father still loved her and how much she loved Keith.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard to miss someone he never knew, but as Keith watches the Queen smooth her hands over the crown of Lance’s head for the fourth time that evening, he feels a pang of nostalgia for something he never had or will have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Across from him, Pidge pipes up, spoon swirling in the air, “So. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> really plant magic? It was. . .what, exactly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve been over this, Pidge,” Lance laughs. It soothes Keith to hear it come so freely again. “Keith said it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul </span>
  </em>
  <span>magic. So. You know. Whatever that means.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>True love</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Hunk pulls the vowels out, almost into song. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith sputters, face blazing. “What does it matter? It’s--everything’s fine now! Right?” He glances at Lance. He bumps against him and nods, smiling wide. “Okay, then, why do you keep asking about it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need to know for research purposes, obviously! Who’s heard of soul magic before! That’s a whole new branch of unexplored magic! Isn’t it exciting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Considering it nearly killed them, no, Keith doesn’t think so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Starlight glitters in the velvet sky long before everyone retires to their beds. No one wants to leave Lance now that he’s finally awake, and Keith’s another one who wants to stay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He isn’t the only one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance grabs him the second he gets up. He’s done that nonstop since he woke, find any and every excuse to touch him. But then, hasn’t he always done that? Now that Keith’s finally allowing himself to notice all those small hints Lance kept giving him, he’s starting to see them everywhere.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Lance breathes, tugging Keith back down. “Stay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to, I do--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance tilts his head a little, the moonlight kissing his throat. Keith swallows and snaps his eyes up to Lance’s before he does something stupid like press his lips there, too. “Yeah? Then what’s stopping you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s exhausted, for one. They both are. The food only quickened their yawns and loosened their limbs; they, for the last hour, used the other for support. But as for an excuse? There isn’t one he can think of that will please Lance enough to let him go. And it isn’t like he’s trying very hard to go to his own room. Between them, Keith knows which he’ll pick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking. “. . .I don’t. . .I can’t answer you. Old habits?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those blue eyes spark with mischief. Lance’s hands curl around Keith’s wrists and the warmth of his touch shivers up Keith’s arms. “You haven’t asked it tonight. Ask me what you always ask me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s only one thing Lance possibly means.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quietly, Keith gives in. “Where will you have me, my prince?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wearing a smile like the moon outside, Lance tells him, “Beside me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time, the answer means something different, something more--something, Keith realizes, it always meant before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, Keith sinks back down to the floor, his hip knocking against Lance’s hip, their hands folding together as Lance smiles like a new, radiant dawn. And he does exactly what both of them want, what they </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted for years:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stays right beside him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The days blur together like sight in tearful eyes, a watercolor of images that melt into something entirely new:  a lavish bed chamber replaced by a single-cot room, a princely face replaced by a wizened healer's, pain replaced by something buoyant and free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After the first night, the two were separated, given how they both were before they cured the sickly magic budding roses in their lungs. And frankly, the journey to and from the Fens wore down Keith more than he wanted to admit, especially in the face of Lance’s limitless joy. He didn't want him to worry, but the others took notice. Pidge and Hunk, the healers too. Come morning, a network of helpers led him from Lance's chambers when he woke sometime around dawn, Lance still fast asleep. Whatever magic Allura used on him was at its limit, all used up, and Keith’s weariness returned, strong as ever. It was Hunk who helped him scrub off a week's worth of grime, and Pidge procured soft bedclothes Keith changed into immediately while his old outfit disappeared down into the castle’s washrooms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had every intention of returning to Lance's room afterward, to the now-cooled spot left at Lance's side, but the healers guided him back to his own room, that small, dark place, and gently coaxed Keith down onto his cot. By then, his exhaustion had resurfaced, and he was too tired to argue. A bed was a bed.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Keith slept, fitfully at times, dreaming of the Fens humidity seeping into his skin, pressing against his lungs, and of a woman who strikes</span> <span>him with her walking stick whenever he starts to drown. </span></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Stop being foolish. You've outgrown it by now,"</span>
  </em>
  <span> she’d say, and Keith jerks awake every time, sweat darkening his collar and underneath his arms in deep patches almost like he was pulled out of that damp place moments before he fell back into his bed. It's during those times that Keith's glad he left Lance’s chambers after that first night, regardless of how badly they both wanted him to stay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For two days, this goes on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the third, he can't take it anymore and, despite the healers warning him against it, Keith dresses in his armor--clean, much thanks to Shiro's attentiveness--and stalks out in the pre-dawn blue for the training grounds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The air is unseasonably cool, a welcome respite from his sun-baked room. Made of black riverstone, the warmth of the Portian days never lifts, except during the short rainy season. Keith smells it in the wind, the shift. The thunderstorm from weeks ago should have clued him in sooner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Things are changing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A light fog rolls in from the sea, as it does whenever the temperature drops low. It coats the high rise of the battlements, spills over the outside ring Keith heads for, tickles the bare patches of his skin. He feels it inflate his lungs whenever he breathes, and he decides he'll take this heavy air over the Fens any day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sand gives under his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses, surveying the arena. No more than a wide circle of sand, it's embraced by a set of stone benches, three tiers high, on the north and south points. Often times, the guards perch on them and watch the fights going on down below, hooting encouragement and hollering insults to goad a reaction. Keith knows all of the soldiers, down to the last recruit. He has, after all, practiced here most of his life; he's seen them come and go, returning from the borderlands either stronger men or broken from things Keith might never see himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he knows without having to peer through the mist that Matt, Pidge's brother and the castle's own weapon enthusiast, woke early to set out the weapon cache and prepare the sparring dummies around the circle by their hooks and stands. As he squints through the rising fog, he can just make out the barrel of wooden staves and the rack full of blunt, training swords set off to the side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith already has his preferred weapon strapped around his hips. With a flick of his wrist, the blade slides out, the weight another part of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He steps forward lightly, narrowing his eyes in the brightening light. He sees them, the silhouettes standing stock-still, bits of straw jutting from deep belly-gashes and throat cuts Matt either didn't have time to repair or forgot about. Keith tosses the blade into the air with a twirl, and catches it, the slap of the heavy hilt jolting up his arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprisingly, he feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Better than usual. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The healers made a fuss about him, much as they had Lance, and they woke him up periodically over the last few days so he'd eat and toss back some odd potion that tasted foul and burned all the way down to his belly. He suspects that's why he slept so long, because he certainly doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> like he spent the last week heaving up roses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers tighten.  He lowers his blade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he feels like this, then how is Lance faring? He should go see him, sneak up into his bedchamber and tug aside the gossamer curtains surrounding his bed and--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn't finish the thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The night he returned, he and Lance stayed up as long as they could, talking about all the things they tried to convey without words. The looks, the touches, how Keith stubbornly called Lance </span>
  <em>
    <span>my prince</span>
  </em>
  <span>, why Lance always answered </span>
  <em>
    <span>beside me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Years of hints, of subtle confessions, all overlooked or thought to be nothing more than flirty fun. How stupid they were. How much time they wasted not saying what they really meant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith squeezes the hilt of his dagger, and he wonders what would've happened if he hadn't made it back in time, if he'd been wrong, if--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Momentum whistles past his ear, the force whipping his hair to the side and setting his teeth on edge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No pain comes. Only a dull thud as something finds a new home in the heart of a dummy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares at it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not an arrow, as Keith expects. It glints in the low light, lit from within like a gemstone, blue as the dawn. Or a specific pair of diamond studs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith has to admit he's rather impressed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without turning his head, he asks, "Ice? When'd you learn how to do that?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Laughter replies, dressed in Lance's easy way. "Just now, actually."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looks behind him then. Lance stands at the edge of the rink, arms hung up in the air as if he holds an invisible bow. He smiles crookedly when their eyes meet, and bends in a wide, grandiose sweep. A playful bow presented in a perfect square of sunshine cut into the mists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just now? What do you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>just now?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance straightens up. “I’m learning a lot can be accomplished if you ask the right questions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith lifts a brow. “So you </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span>. . . ?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And the water listened, yes, keep up with me here, Keith.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Impossible," Keith mutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Impossible?" Lance scoffs, indignant. "How can something I </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually did</span>
  </em>
  <span> be impossible?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ice melts off the dummy, puddles in the place where it once had feet. Slowly, the fog creeps into the empty space, Lance's details fuzzed by gray and distance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like always, Keith misses the sight of him once he's gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some things, it seems, will never change.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I wasn't talking about what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span>. An impossible thing."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance laughs again, and Keith is given the private pleasure of seeing it come to life in his dancing, blue eyes. "Is that what you think?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith didn't realize he'd walked up to him until they're near enough to touch. He stops, carefully snaps his dagger back into its sheath. "That you're impossible? Of course I do. Look at you. It's hardly daybreak and you're dipped in enough gold to sell at market."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thin chains wrap around Lance's long, bronze throat, the length of each dripping with a ransom of icy blue diamonds. His rings, his ears--a quick look down at Lance's bare feet confess even his </span>
  <em>
    <span>toes</span>
  </em>
  <span>--are suited to match. Soft ivory breeches sinch around his waist, and a weighty blue tunic spills down Lance's chest, split down the middle, showing off smooth skin and hard muscle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith's fingers twitch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance pinches his chin in his long fingers. This close, Keith can see the fog swirl around him, never quite landing on his skin. It's the rainstorm but on a minute level, beads of water so tiny Keith hardly sees them at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"This is what I normally wear. But. On that topic." Lance flicks out his wrists, bangles earning their keepsake name. "How much do you think I'm worth? With or without the gold."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The answer pops in his head immediately:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"More than I can afford."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance lowers his arms. "You didn't make an offer yet, how do you know that for sure?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith fits his hand over the polished amethyst on the butt of his dagger, looking at him and looking at him, all that gold and more. What would he pay to have him? A silly question for a silly thing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Keith says with a slight dip of his head. "People can't own other people, no matter how much they pay. Or don't."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Pretend." Oh, how those eyes sparkle, how they mirror the color of the ocean, so far away. Lance leans in; Keith stands still and waits. "For me?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Lance--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sold." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The prince grins, all teeth and charm and hard hits of Keith's heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's it? Just your name? You sell yourself short, my prince," Keith murmurs, his eyes coasting across Lance's face, so close to his own, following the sharp line of his jaw. Again, his fingers twitch, a wanting so deep he might drown.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Keith." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith steps back once. He looks beyond him at the castle rising from the mists, flickering torchlight winking out as the staff prepares for the new day. Anise spices the air, the stomach-squeezing scent of meat frying wafting out from the kitchens nearby. Hunger claws his stomach. Hunger, and--as he looks back at Lance's akimbo stance, the gasping front of his shirt--something </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was thinking," Keith blurts out suddenly, pacing backwards a handful of steps. Lance watches this, head cocked, morning light blazing across the circlet shoved over his gentle waves. "We never had our match."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Confusion crosses Lance's face. He frowns delicately, thinking. When it hits him, Keith sees his expression smooth, a smile hiking up half of Lance's fine mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How had they kissed only days ago?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three days lost to sleeping paints the memory into another dream. Was it real? It had to be. His mouth no longer tastes of roses. Lance breathes easily, without a hitch. And he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span>, somehow, not half-lost in the Fens endless green mire with a nameless horse and hopelessness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But if it had happened, if they said the things they said and they were true, why did Keith still feel the need to keep distance between them?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance shakes his head, and for a moment, Keith thinks Lance reads his mind. "Oh. That. With everything else going on, I nearly forgot." He examines the ring, Keith's angled body, the five paces stretched between them. "What? You want to now?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In reply, Keith unbuckles his belt and drops his dagger outside of the rink. His boots go next, the heavy things hitting the sand mutedly. "Do you have any other plans?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith holds back a shiver as Lance's eyes rove over him. "I can think of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>few</span>
  </em>
  <span> things, actually."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How about we place a bet?" Keith flexes his fingers, kicks one leg out, steadying his weight between his feet. Like Shiro taught him. Balance is key. He won't fall this time. "Win, and we'll do whatever you want."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"This is a dangerous game already," Lance quips, but off he goes, stepping lightly to the opposite side of the ring, rocking his toes in the coarse sand. "Deal. And if you win? We'll do whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> want?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No. You'll tell me why you came to find me so early in the morning."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But, Keith, isn't that--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith silences him by asking, "Deal?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sly smile blooms across Lance's mouth. "Fine. Deal. Same rules as always?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Same as always."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They wait. One second, two. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith braces his knees, sinks his weight, loosens his arms in preparation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Across from him, the mists quiver. They pulse outwards, pushing moist air over Keith's cheeks, then snap in around the single focal point of Lance's outstretched hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ring clears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Around them, above them, it's as if the day dawned clear and bright, the air scrubbed clean. Collected into a shifting ball of water, it's more than Keith would've guessed the fog contained, and in Lance's capable hands, it continues to transform. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What? No ice this time?" Keith keeps his eyes on the water, pays careful attention when Lance breaks it off into five blunt arrows that float above his hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cocky already?" Lance laughs, and for a second, Keith lets a wide smile break across his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first of those water arrows strikes the ground where Keith's feet were just seconds before he launched himself into a run. They're fast, </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> fast. Another zips overhead, and Keith changes direction on instinct, anticipating where Lance will loose his arrows next.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He steps--and spins neatly out of the way when another comes, the dull tip splashing against the sand, missing his arm by less than an inch. Lance bites back an early triumphant shout, falters, and Keith covers the distance between them while he's redirecting the water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They're close. Keith jerks out his hand--and rolls back as water cuts towards his torso, no longer arrows but a thin wire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hits the sand and rolls under it, popping up on his feet as the water tries to shift into something more useful. Keith laughs, delighted, by this mock-fight, by the sweat beading across his forehead. Even Lance seems similarly affected, though he's rooted in his starting spot, allowing his magic to do all the heavy lifting for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know," Keith calls, constantly moving around; Lance's water splashes and misses and hastily reforms again and again. "Even if it hits me, that doesn't count as </span>
  <em>
    <span>first blood</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance snorts. "And why not? A touch is a touch, Keith."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>first blood's</span>
  </em>
  <span> always been skin-to-skin. You set the rules. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Same as always</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That's what we always do."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The water retreats.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance stands in the middle of it all, bubbles haloing his head, curling down the lengths of his arms, almost snakelike but not as finely rendered. Droplets kiss his fingertips. Gleaming lines roll down the bare patch of chest Keith can see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So it </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> touch him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe that's a rule all its own--a permission given and taken whenever Lance pleases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do I need to remind you of the others? It has been a </span>
  <em>
    <span>long</span>
  </em>
  <span> time since we've done this." </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now</span>
  </em>
  <span> Keith's being cocksure and letting it show. He straightens, waits, taking the moment Lance wastes processing to suck in a greedy lungful of air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bolts forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rules they always follow, for any of their sparring matches, are these:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>First blood</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or first touch. A punch, a bare-footed kick, the barest graze of knuckles across a cheek. As long as skin touched skin in some way, any way, it counted. This was the rule that usually decided the outcome of a match. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Out of bounds</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is seldom used, but in the cases it was, it's usually Keith stumbling outside of the rink, tricked by one of Lance's clever schemes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last is </span>
  <em>
    <span>knock out</span>
  </em>
  <span>. To date, that one never happened, as it required either of the two to become incapacitated. And they never took it that far. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>These fights were for fun, nothing more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today, Keith knows the first will call the fight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows, because as Lance realizes he's on the move again, Keith snaps his hand out, straining his fingers for the line of Lance's throat. They're so close Keith hears the startled intake of Lance's gasp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the water swirling around Lance explodes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No longer orbs and drifting bubbles, it expands back into what it once was:  a heavy fog.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It steals the sight of Lance away, blurs his edges into shadows that are all the same in the low light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith fumbles, staggers to a stop, and in his second of hesitation, a pair of hands dart out and strike his chest, pushing him back. Off balance, Keith's feet skid in the loose sand, and Keith ungracefully falls on his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A groan punches past his teeth, more frustration than pain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls over, or tries to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance unceremoniously drops against him, straddling his stomach, knees clenched around his sides. Through the new blanket of haze, Keith has to squint to see Lance’s beaming smile clearly. But he can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. Everywhere. Warmth and pressure. Keith swallows hard, trying to keep still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Match," Lance sing-songs. His fingers push back Keith's hair from where it's fallen across his forehead, and he knows how he must look by the way Lance pauses. “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If undertow might exist in a single syllable, it does then. Keith's swept up, lost in the breathy way Lance says the word, feels it rocket up his spine in the form of a shudder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I had a dream," Keith croaks, as he buries his fingers deep within the sand. Otherwise, they'll go elsewhere. Like up Lance's silk-clad thighs or, gods help him, his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"A dream?" Lance pinches his bottom lip between his teeth, his breath, already labored from their fight, gusting past his lips. "What about?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That I kissed you." Keith closes his eyes as he says it. He can't stand seeing Lance's face, close to his own, flushed and playful and within reach. And how must he look? Hair spilled like ink over the sand, chest heaving, body trembling, aware of where Lance's thighs squeeze. "That I told you that I loved you and you told me it back."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Keith. . ." The tide of his own name brings him back. It's a star for lost sailors, the pivotal North on every compass and map. It's his way home, a magnetic pull that keeps him pointing in whatever direction Lance turns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opens his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance bows over him, his arms resting on either side of Keith's head. No longer does he smell of roses--no, that's been replaced with the sea salt citrus of his bath oils, the bergamot absolute he dabs on his pulse points. Behind his ears, his wrists, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gods</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he lifts his hands, Keith can glide his fingers up Lance's neck, trace his jaw, touch every jewel glittering in Lance's earlobes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their nearness makes Keith dizzy and stupid; he forgets they were in the middle of a conversation until Lance replies, "That wasn't a dream."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Each word pulls Lance down a little further, the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>dream</span>
  </em>
  <span> breathed across Keith's own lips. He feels each letter, the way their mouths almost connect when Lance lingers on the ending </span>
  <em>
    <span>m</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Prove it," Keith rasps. He doesn't mean for it to come out like that, all graveled and desperate. It just does. He just </span>
  <em>
    <span>is.</span>
  </em>
  <span> "I need you to prove it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance does that and so much more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, when they come together, it isn't soft and questioning, timid or unsure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, the kiss is all pressure and gasps, fingers dragging through hair, yanking the other closer as they finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> crash into one another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith jerks back first, breathing hard, and Lance gifts him one second of it before he closes the distance again. Their teeth clack together in their haste, but neither notice; they shift their faces the right way, open their mouths, and Keith tastes the first of Lance's low moans. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's no thinking after that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just urges he follows, some his own, some Lance sighs when he shifts on top of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their hands, at first, are clumsy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance deftly unbuckles the front of Keith's armor, but hesitates over his exposed chest and stomach, fingers shaking and folding in on themselves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith mirrors him:  he fumbles as he pushes Lance's tunic back over his shoulders, embarrassing considering it was already barely on, but when it comes to touching his skin? Keith does it unabashedly, palms smoothing down the toned plain of Lance's stomach like he often thought about doing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's better than any of his wild, wicked dreams.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But just like his dreams, it ends abruptly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Noise carries across the yard. Men, women, the susurrus of chainmail shifting over leather. Boots hitting the dirt. Raucous laughter bleeding through the mists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith sits up so fast his forehead clocks Lance's chin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ow!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith grabs Lance's hands, squeezing them tightly. He holds his breath; all he can hear are Lance's quiet pants and sighs, the soft, playful, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Uh oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>," he murmurs when he finally hears what Keith does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We've got company." Lance grins, amused, and drops his hands against Keith's naked chest. Keith sucks in a quick breath. "Well, this looks bad, doesn't it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith swats his hands away and haltingly attempts snapping his armor back into place. Lance, for his part, remains planted firmly in Keith's lap, his tunic hanging off his shoulders, so devastatingly beautiful Keith has to avert his eyes from the distraction of his bronze skin or neither of them are going anywhere fast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you just gonna sit there or do something about it," Keith hisses, fingers shaking as he clips the last buckle in place. Everything is increasingly hard to do when all he wants is to card his fingers back through Lance's hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You really </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> embarrassed, aren't you?" Lance holds Keith's burning cheeks, turning his head so he'll look up at him. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I won the match, didn't I?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stills. "You did."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And, remind me, what did I win?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith swallows and shuts his eyes. "That we'd do whatever you want."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears Lance laugh, breathy a nnd low, and beyond him, a deep voice swearing at the fog. He feels Lance draw close, their lips almost touching as the prince whispers, "Come find me. I'll be up in my rooms. Don't keep me waiting long, okay?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their lips meet, and as Keith leans up into the kiss, mouth sighing apart from every molten thing that burns inside him, Lance breaks away. The weight of his body against his lifts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith's eyes fly open--but it's too late.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The mists have redoubled. Lance is nowhere in sight. Even the far-flung shadowy forms of the training dummies are concealed, lost in the haze as much as the soldiers stamping towards the training rink are.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith scrambles to his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The voices close around him, pressing in from the white nothingness Lance created. Clever. Keith has just enough time to tug on his boots before he hears someone call out, "Is someone out there?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fastening his belt back on, Keith calls back, "Just me, Shiro."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Keith?" This sounds like Matt, if the pitched curiosity is enough to go by. "Why are you out here in this godsawful fog? I swear, Shiro, it wasn't this bad earlier or I wouldn't have  bothered with setting up." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith almost laughs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Better yet," Shiro intones. "What are you doing out of bed? Shouldn't you be resting?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They come into view, finally, Shiro's broad shoulders and Matt's wiry frame, along with a small netting of about a dozen other soldiers. New recruits, by the looks of them. Quiet and observant, wide eyes trained on the legendary back of one of Portia's greatest heroes, they huddle a few paces behind, some with their chins tilted defiantly, others fumbling with their arms like they're not quite sure of what to do with them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith remembers a time he was like that, back when he first came to the castle. He'd been nervous but, as Shiro put it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>spirited</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He ran so many laps within that first week, his legs jellied and his feet broke out in bleeding blisters. Lance clucked over him, small fists dug against his hips, thin arms stuck out like a silly chicken, and called him </span>
  <em>
    <span>stubborn</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he watched the healers teach Keith how to bind his feet with soft cloth to prevent his skin from splitting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the following days, Lance practiced the same on his own feet, for hours and hours, trying to get it right. Keith always wondered why. Now, he thinks, it makes perfect sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm fine," Keith tells Shiro, rolling a shoulder in what he hopes comes off as nonchalance. He thinks of Lance again, how he felt pressed against his body, and the urge to dart towards the castle burns up his legs. "I couldn't stand being cooped up anymore. Had to stretch my legs some."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro stops a few steps in front of him. He wears his ornamental cloak, the creamy ivory fabric fastened at his throat with a heavy, polished opal. Without sunlight, it loses its magical shift from one color to the next, and looks plain and simple even with the silverwork holding it in place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like the amethyst set in his dagger, his gifted cloak, these gemstones are small nods of status, marking Shiro and Keith as two of the favored few. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro tilts his head. His eyes take him in without missing a thing. "I can understand that. But, how about you take it easy for the next few days? Don't push yourself. There'll be plenty of time for training later."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mollified, Keith agrees, "I won't."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good. Now, get back to the castle and get something to eat."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith dips his head in a quick bow and steps around them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh? And Keith?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses and glances back at Shiro, seeing his wide smile, barely, in the gloom. "Yeah?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Send my regards to the prince, will you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cadets don't understand why that's important, but by the look on Matt's face, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> certainly does. Shiro smiles and turns back to his charges, gesturing with his one good hand at the fog-cloaked grounds, falling into a description of the arena and the caches hidden out of sight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All for the better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith's face burns as he combs the sand out of his hair all the way back to the castle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Secret passages exist all over the grounds, if you knew where to look, and as Keith's lived in the Portian palace nearly his entire life, he knows exactly the fastest way to get anywhere within the castle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A trapdoor in the library drops you tidily into the laundry room, safe and sound on a basket of neglected blankets that always miss their turn for the wash. The kitchen holds two, overflowing pantries, but only one has a door hidden behind a wall of wine barrels, a tiny square, hinged thing nearly invisible in the shadows. This leads to a small, circular, dirt-packed room known as the Buzz Cellar, and Keith knows from personal experience why it got that name. Hunk and Pidge and Lance--they all do. Keith thinks of those nights fondly, the wine never as sweet as split between the four of them in that dark little room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Since most of the castle boasts an open-air design, it's particularly easy for someone to scale a side wall up onto the overhanging balcony above the gardens. Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the sense that Keith memorized the foot- and handholds worn in the white stone; perhaps, even, was the force behind why they were as deep and smooth as they are, perfect rests for his fingers and the toes of his boots. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In under a minute. Keith climbs the wall and has his feet planted firmly on the balcony outside of Lance's chambers. There's no mist here--that faded right as Keith snuck into the garden, almost as if by design. Summer sunshine licks up the back of his neck, encouraging him forward into the cool-blue shadows of the waiting room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he goes, but only after he takes off his loud, heavy boots and hides them in the violet ivy spilling over the railing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On silent feet, Keith creeps into Lance's chambers, much as he's always done. Curfew never meant much to a pair of teens desperate for late-night companionship and gossip. Countless nights were lost to hours of whispered conversation. Back before Keith understood how he felt, the two would lay on Lance's bed, elbow-to-elbow, and discuss the rumors running around the castle or tell the other about the scant hours they were apart. Back then, the nights were what Keith always looked forward to. They were the reasons his days flew into weeks and months and years.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only half-an-hour at most passed since their fight on the grounds, and in that small window of time, Lance decided to change out of his flowy clothes and diamonds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the afternoon grows more gold and hot by the minute, Lance sits in one of his silk bathrobes, his long legs drawn up. Keith watches him from the back, sees the soft leftward tilt of his head, one ear tuned towards the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah. So he's expecting him to come bursting through the main entrance. Keith smiles to himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But what is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His arms shift, shoulders breaching the blue fabric of his robe. As Keith pads silently closer, he sees what it is:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Several, colorful jars of oil form a half-circle around Lance's hips, one or two opened and perfuming the air with sharp notes of citrus and orange blossom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance's palms glisten with oil; his tan legs catch the sunshine, polished bronze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stops. He swallows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's food waiting for them on another table, loaves of walnut bread and bowls of fruit, their colorful skins a sunset, deep pink and red and red-violet. Phoenix fruit and pomegranates, bushels of fat grapes. Summerberry wine and crystal clear water wait for them in sweating glasses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of a sudden, Keith realizes that he's hungry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Starving</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but not in that kind of way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance hums softly under his breath, voice low and sweet, rubbing the oil methodically into his skin. Like the fog outside, this is also planned, decided long before Keith ever started back to the castle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Keith appreciates every bit of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Softly, he comes up behind the couch. The smell of those oils overwhelms him--not because they're strong, which they are, but because they smell so much like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lance</span>
  </em>
  <span> Keith almost drags in a deep breath, just so he can hold that scent inside him for a little longer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith does something even better. Because he can't help himself. Because. . .he's had dreams like these, and he's sick of it only happening when he's sleeping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans down, and without warning, grazes his mouth up the side of Lance's throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance's back arches in surprise, his legs kick out, sending some of those valuable vials down to the floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh--</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Keith can't tell if it's a startled noise Lance makes, or a moan, or both. They all sound the same. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Keith!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> Keith understands. He chuckles against Lance's ear and withdraws. "Yes, my prince? You requested me?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance turns around, clutching the back of the couch with a white-knuckle grip. His face is lost under a ruddy flush, and Keith is rather pleased to notice Lance's arms tremble. "You </span>
  <em>
    <span>ass</span>
  </em>
  <span>, did you sneak up here just to scare me? That wasn't part of the plan!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe not yours, no, but it was mine." His grin is absolutely wolfish.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's just </span>
  <em>
    <span>rude!</span>
  </em>
  <span> You ruined the entire thing!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> want me to walk in and catch you oiling your legs? Why? What did you think would happen after that?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance juts out his lower lip and turns his head. "Well, you won't find out, will you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That depends." Keith places a hand on either side of Lance's, leaning over him, his hair falling around his face. After he left the training grounds, he'd been in such a rush to get back to the castle, Keith didn't bother tying it back up. "You won the match. If you ask me to go out through the door and come right back in, I will. You know I will."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance glances up at him. "Where's the fun in that?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll pretend I didn't see anything. I'll be convincingly surprised."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, sure," Lance huffs. He touches the spot Keith kissed, traces the same path with his fingertips, up, up, up his throat. "What if I--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith waits patiently but all Lance does is get up and cross the room on his long, glistening legs. Helplessly, Keith watches him disappear into a closet, choking on the thick smell of the lemon oil spilled across the floor once he's gone from view.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps that was a bit forward of him, the whole kissing thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After the way they tore at each other in the rink, Keith thought they shared similar desires. Hadn't Lance dropped hints throughout the years? Small phrases that always settled low in Keith's stomach and festered for days, things like </span>
  <em>
    <span>come with me</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>take me to bed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Or the way his fingers would draw up the length of Keith's arm, the gentle way Lance liked to rock his weight against Keith's shoulder--all of it was the same, truth laid out in the open</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why am I still worried</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, ripping back his hair with fidgeting fingers. He slips the hair tie off his wrist and binds it back in a sloppy ponytail that leaves it little better than before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn't settle his nerves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Lance comes back, not even a full minute later, Keith's nearly convinced himself he should go and walked halfway out towards the balcony, lost inside his own head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance takes one look at him and cocks a brow. "Stop that," he chides. Since he won the duel, Keith's sworn to do as he asks, and he rocks back on his bare feet. "Keith. I won't force you to stay. If you really want to go--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't." He answers quickly, without thinking. "I. . .what do you have there?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another article of expensive clothing, by the looks of it. The fabric drapes over Lance's hands, fluid as silk. It turns out to be just that when Lance snaps it open, showing off a black vest with gold-thread filigree spilling down from the shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do we think," Lance asks, throwing the Royal </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> out unconsciously. Or maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> were now a </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>. An </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>. "The tailors did a remarkable job on the threadwork. See how it shifts in the light? Fancy, right?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith blinks at him. "Uh, it's lovely, Lance, but I--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That isn't all. There's dark, slim-fit pants and a thick, white undershirt, both secured with winking, onyx buttons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance thrusts the bundle into Keith's hands. "Go on! Try them on. Let's see if they fit."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith frowns. The clothing slips through his fingers, more water than cloth, as fine as his cloak, if not more. ". . .wait. They're </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Indignation twists Lance's face--mostly for show. "Of course they are? You weren't thinking of wearing your armor to the Ball tonight, were you?"</span>
</p>
<ol>
<li>
<span> . .</span><em><span>Ball? </span></em>
</li>
</ol>
<p>
  <span>Keith squeezes the clothes to his chest. “. . .what are you talking about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Didn’t you see the preparations? Actually, nevermind, you've been asleep the last three days, of course you haven't. And you didn’t go through the castle at all, did you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith rolls his shoulder. “I mean. . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance laughs, shaking his head. "The party! The </span>
  <em>
    <span>ball</span>
  </em>
  <span>, whatever you want to call it. The same one we were planning before that. . .I ruined. Anyway." Lance flaps his hands, grabs Keith by his shoulders--his fingers dip down, dig in, and Keith knows he does it on purpose--turning him towards the closet. "I want to see if they fit. Please?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needn't ask. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The clothes, for the most part, </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> fit, though the pants are a little snug around his thighs, the shirt a bit too baggy. Both require securing a number of buttons. Too many buttons, Keith thinks, for what it's worth. The vest fits perfectly, narrows his waist and polishes his bad past clean out of him. No longer is he the boy saved from Market Town, starving and grieving and coated in grime. In the full-length mirror attached to the closet door, a nobleman with his pale face and untamable sable hair looks concerned by what he finds looking back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't look like himself without his armor or his dagger slung around his hips. And he feels. . .exposed, skinned and naked, a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Keith slides his hands down the gold-thread whorls, smoothing wrinkles out of the fabric. It's a soft breath in and a soft breath out before he's able to unstick his bare feet from the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clear skies paint a vivid blue in every window and open archway; bits of it splinter off and make homes in small trinkets littered around the room. Bottles and vials and Lance's vanity mirror, the drink goblets on the table, every ring Lance wears. Keith catches the prince preening, adjusting his crown and swapping out his stud earrings for ones that dangle against his throat. Pots of creams and mica powders clutter the desk in front of him, some uncapped, others shoved aside. Keith spies gold liner and shadow. Unsurprisingly, the colors Lance selected match the color of the threading in his vest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance's eyes flick up, spy him hovering around the closet door, and he spins around quickly to look at him full on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh," Lance says softly at first, as his eyes </span>
  <em>
    <span>dip</span>
  </em>
  <span> down low, raking over every inch of him, from toes all the way back up to his face. A weight settles low, </span>
  <em>
    <span>low</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Keith's belly. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shifts his weight. "Oh?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At his beckon, Keith goes to him, stopping shy of their feet touching. Lance still looks and looks. The longer he does, the heavier his gaze becomes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost like. . .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I get it," Keith murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A corner of Lance's mouth lifts. "Ah, that easy, huh?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith holds his hand in the warm air between them, fingers reaching out then curling back in, showing his indecisiveness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You can, Keith," Lance gusts out. "You're allowed to touch me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stares at him, his heart at war. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to, more than anything, but he can't close the distance. Not with Lance looking at him like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not with what he suspects rolling around in his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance squirms under his gaze. "Keith, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith glances up at him. Lance's brows twist, his dark throat flushes. And is he shaking? Yes. They both are. "Is that an order," he asks, taking a step forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance hesitates, bites his lip, and how had Keith made it all these years without breaking apart from how much he wanted him? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What happens," Lance breathes, "if I say 'yes'?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith's nearly on him now, a step away, Lance scrambling back though it's clear he doesn't want to miss what Keith's going to do. The jars on the vanity shudder and clink together when Lance's hip strikes the corner. Keith’s reluctance lifts. With the ragged sound of Lance’s breathing occupying the paltry space between them, it never stood much of a chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Say 'yes'," Keith instructs, leaning into him, "and find out."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance, in fact, does not say 'yes'.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't say anything at all for that matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because Keith finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>breaks</span>
  </em>
  <span> and kisses him, stealing his chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance, with the aid of Keith's strong arms, hefts himself up on the vanity, jars fainting around his hips, rolling off the desk. They strike the marble floor like bells. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ting ting ting!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Priceless cosmetics and creams shattering in bursts of broken glass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But that's for later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How can Keith focus on anything else when Lance weaves his fingers through his hair and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yanks</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or Keith drags his teeth across Lance's lower lip in a way that leaves him moaning?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For now, small worries are overrun by small pleasures.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance hooks a leg around Keith's back, his bathrobe quick to slide up his stomach. Keith glances down, greedily traces his fingers over the canvas of tanned skin, the soft trail of hair, following where it leads. Every muscle in Lance's stomach tightens in anticipation. He trembles, what remaining jars shaking right along with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith pulls his hands away, the whistle of Lance's sharp breath in his ears as he twines the robe belt around his hand. Keith pauses, turning a silent question up at Lance, who nods encouragingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith gives the belt one, firm </span>
  <em>
    <span>jerk</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The robe splits open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blue satin melts off Lance's shoulders, runs down his arms like water, until there's only this:  Lance, sitting in a puddle of blue, legs twitched apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith grabs the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans into Lance suddenly, pressing his forehead against Lance's collarbone, breathing loudly. He feels Lance's chuckle building in his chest before he hears it pop past his lips, his fingers drawing shivers up Keith's back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Hey. Don't stop. You were on to something with tha-</span>
  <em>
    <span>ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>--" Keith nips Lance's throat and he fumbles, hips rocking up, beautifully impatient.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith can’t fault him. This is better than any dream, any late-night thought guiding their hands. No wonder he planned for Keith to find him much like this, robe half-off, his legs shining, every peek of his skin expertly determined. It's stealing every amount of concentration Keith has.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grunting, Keith presses his mouth against the throbbing pulse beating in Lance’s throat. He feels the thunder of Lance’s heartbeat striking his hands as he slips them down again, Lance’s encouraging gasps and soft noises filling the air above his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith follows the path his hands took, skimming kisses across Lance’s chest, his quivering stomach, feeling each jolt and jump as Lance shifts and stirs. He hears the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> sighed out so often that Keith can’t focus on anything else, and he misses the sound of the door opening up behind him until someone calls out Lance’s name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance folds his legs over Keith’s back at once, jerking him forward. Keith bumps into the vanity, hands flying back, striking the lip of the desk Lance has partially slid down. If there are anymore vials or jars, they’ve fallen over, rolled and nestled up against Lance’s exposed thighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith peeks over his shoulder, face against Lance’s chest, frustration building. They finally get to this point after so long, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> they’re getting interrupted? He starts to pull away. Lance folds his hands in his hair and holds him there, pressed against him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A servant stands by the door. Her face is scorched pink, and her eyes are locked on something on the ceiling. “Y-your highness! I-I’m sorry to bother you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I specifically asked </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be,” Lance says, tone sharp. “What is it? Can’t it wait?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The girl nods. “Y-yes! Yes, of course! I-I’ll leave at once, your highness! I’m sorry, so sorry! Forgive me, please--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance’s fingers push back Keith’s hair, shaking softly as the girl backs away. The door bangs shut, and they’re alone once again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith sighs and sinks against him, sliding his hand up his leg. Lance’s skin smells like citrus and the sea, bright and sunny and warm. “What’s this about a request?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter, as you can tell.” Lance relaxes his legs just a little bit, threads his fingers out of Keith’s hair and down the back of his neck. Shivers roll deliciously down his spine. “No one actually listened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. You know, if </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been the one guarding the door--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna stop you right there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith glances up at him. “Are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance tilts his head back, the line of his throat too tantalizing not to pull Keith’s mouth up at once. The shivery sigh Lance breathes out afterward is worth the added distance from where he’d planned to go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that what you want?” Keith breathes, mouth tracing Lance’s ear. His hands creep down, stop right before they touch where he wants--where </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lance</span>
  </em>
  <span> wants him to. “Me to stop?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance groans. His head knocks against the mirror. “No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gods</span>
  </em>
  <span>, no. If you stop, I think I’ll die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith chuckles. “You will not. Stop being dramatic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know that. I, actually, very nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> d--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again, Keith makes sure to silence him the best way he now can. With a kiss. With the press of their bodies coming together in all the separate ways they touch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance shuts up pretty quickly after that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, in </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> ways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In others, he doesn’t stay quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With his hands braced on Lance’s knees, every low sound crashing in from above, Keith’s only hope is that the night will end as it begins:  caged between Lance’s thighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Light and sound fill the ballroom to bursting, spill out from the open doors like a second carpet made of blue firelight and the effervesce of champagne-laced laughter. From the hall, Keith can smell the sugary perfume of petits fours and berry tarts, the sharp amber musk dotting the throats of guests swishing to and from the room in their voluminous dresses and sharp suits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance asked Keith to wait for him here, just outside of the ballroom, and so wait he does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith’s chosen a spot half-hidden in the shadow pooling off of a column, arms folded, shoulders leaned casually against the wall. With nothing else to do, he watches the party-goers enter and leave, catching small snippets of their conversations. Most talk of Lance’s recovery, how his illness ‘vanished as quickly and mysteriously’ as it came on. Though it wasn’t meant to be kept secret, the only people who really know what happened that day aren’t exactly loose-lipped, and besides, it was never about the wonder of a quick recovery, just that it’d happened at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith rubs his thumb over his lower lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s somewhat worried Lance won’t show up, that he’ll wait here for hours, alone, watching the guests drift around like the colorful fish they are, even though he was just with him, as close as they’d ever been. Maybe that’s why he's so antsy. This sudden distance is new.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then he hears:  “Why are you hiding?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith glances back. Lance stands just behind him, a small smile toying on his lips. And just like that, everything inside him eases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s changed in the short time they’ve been apart, into a crisp, white suit that does the world a terrible crime of denying the sight of his long, tan legs. A sapphire-studded sash cuts across his chest and under one arm, a river of blue slashing his jacket in two. When Lance tilts his head under Keith’s study of him, every single one of his earrings glitters to match--aqua diamonds and night-deep sapphires twinkle in his ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith swallows. Reaches behind him, grasping the hilt of his dagger, seeking its comfort even now, and remembers he left it upstairs on the floor. “You told me to wait for you here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here specifically? Hidden in the shadows?” Lance advances, and his hands lifting, carefully tucking the flyaway locks of Keith’s hair behind his ears. Before Lance sent him off, he spent an agonizing amount of time working his hair back into a braid. “Don’t think I put it </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said ‘by the door’. I’m by the door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A single, thin brow arches up, and it does something to Keith. Hell, every small thing these past few days, no matter how slight, does something to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without thinking, Keith lifts his hand and catches Lance’s in his own, twining their fingers together. The resulting smile Lance gifts him with is nothing short of pure, molten sunshine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, all right, I guess you got me there.” Lance pulls his hand as he steps back. The mage-fire lanterns cast him in their ethereal light, paint him like he’s trapped beneath the waves. “But I’m here now, and we can finally go to the party.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith stupidly asks him, because he can’t think of anything else to say, “And where will you have me, my prince?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Really, he just wants to hear Lance say those words again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance smiles, and it’s no less dazzling this time than before. “Beside me,” he says. “Where else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The small glimpses Keith had of the room are nothing to its actual splendor. A long table near the back is weighed with any possible treat one could imagine, from the tiny cakes Keith swore he smelled to even his beloved sweet rolls. Kitchen staff, including Hunk who catches their eye and winks, drift around the attendees, offering flutes of sparkling ale and pink champagne. Silver lights twinkle up near the ceiling, as soft and beautiful as trapped starlight. And in the center of the room, a place clotted with knots of dancers swaying to soft violin music, Pidge’s coral masterpiece blooms, its colors vibrant as dyed silk and unmistakably alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance brightens as he leads Keith into the room, their fingers netted together. Keith tries to shake off his hand as the eyes of the court swivel towards them, and Lance holds on even tighter, squeezing Keith’s fingers reassuringly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he reminds him. “By now, everyone probably knows anyway, so what’s it matter?” His blue eyes flash to him and hold his stare. “I don’t care if they see. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> them to see. I want everyone in Portia to know what you mean to me, don’t you get that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith hesitates by the door, their arms strung between them. “You want--?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You,” Lance answers. He gives Keith’s hand a gentle tug. “Isn’t that obvious by now? I want </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room offers them space. People bow and shuffle out of their way, their faces glittering with smiles and paint, heavy gold liner like Lance has drawn over his eyes on some, fashionable silver on others. As they come up on the coral piece, Hunk cuts in, and his gentle laughter puts Keith more at ease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, looks like you need this.” Hunk passes him a flute of something bubbling and sweet. “You two nervous?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” answers Lance at the same moment Keith dips his head in acknowledgement. His cheeks prickle from the sugary liquor, face twisting in distaste.  Lance elbows him and plucks the glass out of his fingers, sampling it for himself. “Stop that. No one's even looking at us. See? We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re fine.” Lance rakes his eyes down Keith’s formal clothes, head tilted slightly. “Hm, actually. . . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith huffs. “Lance--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance winks and, after a moment, returns the empty glass to Hunk’s tray. “Maybe something stronger for him? I’m pretty sure he takes his ale dark and thick enough to chew.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk wrinkles his nose. “Seriously?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, not seriously.” Keith squeezes Lance’s fingers before slipping his hand away. It doesn’t matter--the moment he does, Lance threads his arm through his and leans his weight against him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, if you’re sure, I’ll be around.” Ducking in closer, Hunk tells them, “Have fun, you two. You deserve it after. . .after everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he whisks off, lost in the crowd, swallowed up in folds of orange and violet dresses and the men’s sharp blue suits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance peeks up at him once Hunk's out of sight. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you nervous?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith watches Portia swirl around them, several sets of eyes alighting on them then glancing just as quickly away. Lance might be comfortable under all the attention, but it leaves Keith’s skin crawling. He wants nothing more than to be up in Lance’s chambers again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, where it doesn’t matter how close they stand or how well their bodies slot together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“. . .what happens if I say ‘yes’,” Keith asks, borrowing Lance’s own question from earlier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It earns him a small smile. “Well, I can’t have that. Come on, follow me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ballroom is of similar design to Lance's open rooms, with door-less archways facing the river and sea. Lanterns hang above each one, twinkling bright blue, so it's easy to find a way out of the stuffy room if one needs a small reprieve from the festivities, as Lance assumes Keith does. Or perhaps it only seems that way, because the moment they stand alone on the empty balcony, Lance touches his fingertips to Keith's jaw and murmurs, "Better?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"With you?" Keith leans into his touch, "Always."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soft trill of the violins follows them outside, low like the nearby roar of the river, the distant crashes of the sea. Though Lance smiles at Keith, his attention breaks and turns to these other sources, hearing things Keith can't ever possibly know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do they sound like," Keith asks. Gently, he pulls Lance's hand away from his face. Not because he doesn't want it there, but because he wants to hold it even more. "Is it hard to hear above everything else?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, Lance shuts his eyes. "No. Not really. It's. . .like a song I can always pick out. Almost. . .it might sound silly, but almost like it </span>
  <em>
    <span>calls</span>
  </em>
  <span> to me, if that makes sense." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That gives Keith an idea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Using his hold on Lance's hand, he pulls him forward. Lance follows fluidly, poised and ready, his eyes falling to him, so blue and beautiful Keith's heart aches for him, though his right there, caught up in his hands, his sly smile for only him to see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you remember our dancing lessons?" Keith cocks his head as he asks, emboldened now that they're alone. "When they'd pair us up together because Rachel complained about being your partner?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance laughs, shakes his head. His hands know where to go. One drops to Keith's shoulder. The other twines around Keith’s hand. Keith follows his lead and settles his free hand above Lance's hip. "Veronica was just as bad. 'I'm too </span>
  <em>
    <span>old</span>
  </em>
  <span> for dancing lessons.' Really, I think she was just jealous you were taller than her even though she's older." His smile grows. "What's got you thinking about all of that?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith inclines his head towards the door they walked through, the soft swells of music bleeding into the night. "This song made me think of it. It was one we were taught to dance to, remember?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I do." His fingers bear down a little harder as he leans in, his mouth a breath away from Keith's. "I remember how nervous you were when you had to hold my hand. You couldn't get the steps right, unless we practiced alone. I guess I know why now. I thought our instructor made you anxious."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No. It was you. I felt. . .like I had to impress you. Always. No matter what." Keith steps forward; Lance steps back. "In the training hall. The dance hall. Even in our studies. I wanted. . .I wanted you to see me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They do the steps they were taught, a shuffle made in a tight square, one step per beat. The entire time, Keith watches their feet, his brow furrowed in concentration. He hears Lance's breathy laughter midway through the next set, and he glances up to find him smiling, his face soft with affection.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't you know? Since that first day in the market, I haven't been able to keep my eyes off you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looks away, back at Lance's fine shoes. "You don't have to make fun of me, Lance, I--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's a sudden pressure beneath his chin, coaxing him to look back up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Who said I was joking?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words are soft, barely heard above the music, but to Keith, they're loud as song, as unexpected as the dip in the melody pouring out from the ballroom. The violins climb excitedly, urging the dance to quicken, for partners to twirl and gather each other in their arms, pull in close then break apart again. It's a tide song, inspired by the rush and pull of the ocean waves, where the dance starts slow and builds up to this very moment, when the music signals them to draw back and forward, alone then together again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither of them move.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith watches Lance. He listens to him breathe the humid nighttime air through parted lips, his earrings glittering when he rocks unconsciously forward, his circlet reflecting the magicked-blue flames flickering around them like wishes made real. Before this moment, he's always been something of a fairytale. Too perfect, a picture on a page Keith wanted but could never touch or hold or have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this isn't before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now, as the violins’ final notes drift away into silence, Keith rushes forward, the waves reaching for the shoreline of Lance's skin with every part of him. Lips catch lips. Hands fumble, grasp, cling. Legs connect, feet bump together, tangle. They sigh, as one, their noses mashed against each other's cheeks in their haste to come close, to be close, to forget where one of them starts and the other ends. Just as the shore and the sea inevitably becomes the seashore, the two of them blur into one thing that writhes and moves and--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A tittering laugh breaks the illusion, startles them apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, it startles </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keith</span>
  </em>
  <span> back a few steps. The night is unbearably cool when he's standing alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance pivots, ever the dancer, and looks behind him at the cause of yet another disruption.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If anger is the first thing to ignite, it's also the first to snuff out, for Allura is the one standing behind them. As always, dressed in a gown of ivory-and-pearl, the Altean princess is resplendent. Between the dress and her hair, she looks like someone skimmed her from the clouds and set her inside the castle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance mock bows. "Allura! What a surprise!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith touches three fingers to his heart, heels snapping together, his bow textbook perfect. When he looks up, Lance rolls his eyes at him. "Milady."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Allura hides her laughter behind her palm. "Aren't you two lively! Feeling better, I presume?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Much, thanks to you." Lance offers her his hands, and the moment they touch, Allura's markings begin to glow, dim as Keith's ever seen them. "See? Good as new."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Allura's bright eyes cut over to Keith. "You give me too much credit." She withdraws her fingers, and her markings return to their normal pink. "But I'm glad it all worked out for you two, in the end."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith shifts. Though Allura sounds nothing short of sincere, it makes his skin prickle and he blurts out, "But, the proposal--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is nothing that hasn't already been taken care of." Allura gazes at Lance. "Isn't that right?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance rolls his shoulder, the effect lost beneath the crisp lines of his jacket. Keith wishes suddenly--and fiercely--that they were upstairs again, if only so he could jerk the jacket down his arms and--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but yes," Lance says, and there's something sly in the way he rocks back on his heels, how he threads his hands behind his back. "Not that I think we'll hit any hiccups, hurdles, or hindrances regardless of what my parents may think."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's for the best," Allura agrees. Fondness alights her face, softens the edges of her smile, as she turns towards the sea. "You aren't the only ones wishing to follow your hearts."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith and Lance exchange glances. Lance, full of understanding. Keith, his confusion loud and clear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But that's for later," Lance chirps before Keith can ask any questions, reaching for Keith's hands, once again drawing close. "I'm not sure if you two are aware there is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>party</span>
  </em>
  <span> going on right now, buuuut--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith can't help it:  he dissolves into laughter alongside Allura.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Very subtle," he drawls, drawing Lance's hand to his mouth and, in a rush of fearless inspiration, dusts a kiss across the sharp peaks of his knuckles, the cool bands of his rings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'd like to think so. After all, all the hints I dropped went unnoticed for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The itch to kiss that grin off Lance’s mouth is so strong Keith nearly does it, audience be damned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds himself back, even drops Lance’s hand in an act of mock disappointment. “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, no. Never isn’t long enough,” Lance says, his smile like the rest of him:  too beautiful and bold. “Better get used to it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn't think he’ll ever get used the things Lance does. Not his smiles, not the casual way he draws in and leans against him again, arms encircling one of Keith’s, not the soft look they exchange and what Keith interprets it as, what waits for them after the party draws to an end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Allura claps her hands together. Keith’s attention breaks to her reluctantly. “Lance is absolutely right. A party awaits! Save me a dance, you two?” She winks at them, and Lance responds with a polite ‘of course’ and a cheerful laugh that follows Allura all the way inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they're alone again, Lance doesn’t initiate another dance like Keith expects. He doesn’t draw away, either, his warm body tucked snuggly against Keith’s as before, arms looped lazily around him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a while, they simply stand like that, gazing at the bobbing, silver-light glowing down in the gardens, the river vibrant with starlight and the castle’s shimmering reflection. At some point--and Keith can’t discern exactly when it happened--a new song started playing inside, this one a lullaby full of sleepy harp notes and a single, tenor voice rising and falling, words lost to a language Keith doesn’t know. Regardless, like everything else about that night, it’s achingly beautiful, the type of song the night requires.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, Lance pulls his arms away. He steps around, facing Keith full-on, and places his hands on his chest. Moonlight silvers him from hair to feet, all his gold blanched into a new, ethereal color, his eyes clear and sharply blue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith knows what he wants because it’s the same thing he wants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The way they meet this time is gentle and careful, exactly opposite of the desperate way they crashed together before, inspired by the tide song’s peak. But, gods, it doesn’t matter how it happens, if it’s a rush and a crash or </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>--Lance stepping into him, his hands combing the hair away from his face, lips gasping apart, seeking, asking without words for Keith to follow him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course he follows him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He follows him around the balcony, chasing Lance’s quick steps back into the castle, skirting the puddles of light dripping off the torches and the halos of blue cast from the lanterns. They crowd behind columns when groups of lavishly dressed people pass, like they’re thieves planning to pluck the vibrant jewels glittering at their throats and weighing down their hands in wide-band rings and clunky bracelets. Lance almost gets them caught when he can’t hold back his breathless laughter, drunk on what they’re doing and how close Keith stays beside him, their bodies always brushing together or knocking at the shoulders or hips, fingers glancing off of arms and knuckles or deliberately sneaking up shirtsleeves. It sets Keith in mind of the night they snuck out to go down to the Tinner Inn, how Lance, while bundled in Keith’s old cloak, crept from one shadow to the next, biting his lip in a weak attempt to stifle his excitement, his face ruddy from cheeks to the tips of his ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back then, they had a full moon to follow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight, it’s the destination of Lance’s rooms that calls, ready and waiting for them with a fire raging in the hearth, magicked blue as to match the lanterns strung in the windows. Seeing the flames--not just a singular blue, but several all at once, constantly flickering from aqua to cornflower to almost navy and every shade in between--makes Keith pause.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh?” he asks Lance’s painted back, the white fabric turning every color the fire becomes. “Magic fire, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance spins on the ball of his foot, shrugging dismissively. As if he didn’t plan it like this. As if this isn’t the entire point, to surprise him, at least once. “What? Don’t you like it? It gives the room </span>
  <em>
    <span>ambiance</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith cocks a brow, and steps into him, hands already pushing the jacket off Lance’s shoulders. He didn’t think he could hate a piece of clothing so much, but here he is, tossing the expensive thing to the floor like a rag. “It makes you look wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘It makes me </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> wrong’? What’s that supposed to mean? I thought you said blue was my color?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah, there they are, the smooth curves of Lance’s shoulders, bleached green-blue from the fire, his freckles lost in the shift of unnatural light. Keith traces over the warm spots the summer sun kissed before he ever had the chance, the plains of tan skin lost under a flurry of freckles Keith can’t see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not like this,” Keith admits. He maps the rest of Lance’s naked arm, from shoulder to wrist, and Lance lets him, humming with a content sort of pleasure the entire while. It doesn’t escape Keith’s notice that Lance wore a sleeveless shirt beneath his suit jacket, as if he knew the moment they were alone, Keith would do something just like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance tilts his head. His earrings, as always, sparkle, drawing Keith’s eye back up. He doesn’t miss the slow unfurl of Lance’s smile, how it’s ready for him the moment he looks. “You know, I think I get what you’re saying.” His fingers brush through Keith’s hair, twining a lock around his finger. “Your hair just looks black in this light.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“. . .but it’s always black.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really. It’s black, and in certain lights, it goes violet or green or blue. Like you could never make up your mind what color you really wanted it to be, so it was all those colors at once. Like crow feathers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of that sounds painfully familiar, something Lance had already told him once, long ago, and he simply forgot about it until that moment. What Keith does remember is the time Lance ran up to him from the gardens, hands smudged with grass stains and dirt, and tucked found feathers in his hair, their sharp points pricking the backs of his ears when Lance got too eager and careless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith touches one of his ears. Lance reaches up and folds his fingers over his, and laughs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You remember then? The feathers?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I. . .how old were we? When you did that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance sweeps Keith’s hand up in his own, their fingers intertwining. “Hm. I think that was right after you came to the castle. I. . .ha, I guess I already told you all of that before, huh? When I found the feathers in the first place.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith would listen to him retell the same story a thousand times if it meant he could hear Lance speak. Somehow, without saying so, the meaning is clear, because Lance softens even more, and he draws in, knocking their foreheads together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” he starts, warm breath tickling across Keith’s nose. He smells like the fruity drink he downed in the ballroom, all bubbles and tipsy pears. “I never thought it’d come to this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith gathers him up in his arms, hands pressing against his lower back. “Me either. Sometimes, I. . .” He hesitates, finds courage, and tells him everything. “I would dream about you, all the time. And those dreams, they’d. . .they’d be almost everything I wanted except real. And it still wasn't enough.” Lance draws away slightly, just enough that the firelight creeps in, swallowing his face in shivering, gemstone blue. “Because I always woke up, alone, and feeling like. . .like. . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like it’d always be like that.” Lance sighs. “Right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith nods. It’s easier than telling him how loneliness never felt as strong as in those moments between midnight and dawn, when he’d jolt awake, shaking with desire and heartache, the sweat on his skin cooling while his heart tripped over itself, partially aroused but mostly miserable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanted to tell you. For so many years. But I thought. . .” Here, Keith takes Lance’s hands in both of his own, fingers folded over fingers, and gently draws them in, lips brushing across each and every one of his knuckles, his rings. He doesn’t do it for luck, but for love. “Well, I thought what you thought. That it didn’t matter. That you’d never. . .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey. Keith. Look at me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn’t realize he is staring intently at Lance’s hands until he says that, and he quickly amends it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he sees waiting for him dries up whatever else he wants to say. There isn’t any point to it, speaking of all those old hurts like they’re still lodged inside him, taking root. From the moment he dragged himself onto Lance’s bed and confessed, since the very second he kissed him, all of those doubts, those fears, they shriveled up and died, leaving room for all the possibilities he never dared wish on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he knows it’s the same for Lance, who fell under the curse of it first, who was so swallowed up by what he thought wasn’t possible that it nearly killed him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why say anything when they can convey it much better through touch? With glancing kisses and fleeting caresses and feet stumbling backwards towards Lance’s bed? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything comes to a head as they struggle out of their clothes. Keith accidently tears through the fragile silk vest Lance wears, dusting gold buttons and gems as small as seeds across the sheets. An apology rushes into his mouth, knocks against his teeth, and is quickly swallowed up by Lance’s delighted laughter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” he breathes, kissing the worry straight from Keith’s lips. The ruined vest melts off of him in two separate parts, flung to the floor like all the rest. Things for later. “I hated that top anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s another pause a few minutes later when Lance worms his hands down into Keith’s slacks and pulls him free, his kiss-swollen lips now parted, sucking in a whistling breath that slowly deepens into something excited.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Lance says that time, scrambling up off from where he sits, perched on Keith’s thighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith peeks a flash of Lance's long legs, the bare curve of a cheek, before Lance disappears into his bath chamber. It gives Keith a second to kick off his boots and his slacks, and another so he can snap the tie holding his hair back. The braid is long gone, half pulled out by the same fingers that wove it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's just found his breath when Lance returns, bouncing back on top of him in the same position they left off. And once he's there, the warmth of him scorching Keith clean through, naked thighs against naked thighs, he notices the small vial Lance clutches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What's--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance shoots him a sheepish grin, the first sign he may be nervous since they started. "Don't think too hard about it, okay?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thumbs up the stopper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the magicked light, the contents are indigo, and strangely familiar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then it hits him, and he reaches out, pulling the vial away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bath oil," Keith asks. For some reason, naming the contents of the tiny, glass bottle causes a flush to creep up his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I </span>
  <em>
    <span>said</span>
  </em>
  <span>--" Lance snatches it back. "--don't think about it. Just trust me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The problem with that is that Keith </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> thinking about it, and when he isn't, he's watching Lance drizzle the colored oil into his palm, sees him dip his hand lower and--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A huff of a laugh hits the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith realizes his fingers are bearing down against Lance's thighs, and he quickly jerks his hands back. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Wh</span>
  </em>
  <span>-what?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, nothing, just. . .what did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> I did during all those </span>
  <em>
    <span>awfully</span>
  </em>
  <span> long baths?" His lips press to his, lightly dusts kisses across his jaw, lingers at his ear. What he tells him, in a hush, not only floods Keith's stomach with warmth but pools it lower down, where Lance pumps his slippery hand, every pull, every stroke purposeful and doing exactly all the right things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At a point, Keith stops thinking, just as Lance asked him to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Really, he makes it easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Apparently, when magic bores of coloring flames, it snuffs out entirely, whisks away all heat and light like there wasn't ever a fire at all. The hearthstone would be cool to the touch--not that either Lance or Keith feel much like getting up, not now, not for hours yet. And besides, they are warm enough, in their own ways, and without the garish cast, Keith finally sees the freckles dusting Lance's skin, from nose to shoulders all the way down the arch of his spine. He dedicates much of an hour to connecting them, one-by-one, with his fingertips, while Lance lays languidly against him, dozing on and off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They'll notice the remains of a water pitcher dashed across the floor much later, shards of glass like waiting teeth against the stone. In fact, some of the more intoxicated party guests would claim, at some point deep in the night, the fountains in the gardens gave a violent shudder, small waves cresting over the basin and across the pebbled paths, drenching the rose bushes and upsetting the tight knots of sea lilies bobbing on the water's surface.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, by morning, if it'd happened at all, the traces are long gone, dried up by the heat of the advancing day, the flowers all scooped up and placed back where they belong by bewildered gardeners all scratching their heads and chins. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It'd be hard to know how much was real or exaggerated without any proof.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stories are often only stories, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>--♚--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance is the last thing Keith sees before he falls asleep, and he's the first thing he sees when he wakes a few hours later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The beaming sunshine is to blame. Keith never noticed before how it poured into the room from all those open windows, heating not only the floor but the gauzy curtains shuddering around the four-poster bed. The sheets, too, if they were actually draped over them instead of spilling on the floor, lost in the rest of the mess they made the night before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith spies their clothes, haphazardly tossed around the bed, and something that sparkles in the sunshine, glitters like crystal. Or glass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A quick glance at the bedside table confirms the water pitcher is gone, probably knocked off accidentally as they shifted or rolled around. He pushes up, considering cleaning it, when Lance gives out a mighty roar of a yawn and curls tighter against Keith's side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don' you dare move," the prince murmurs, sleep drawing his vowels long and his consonants sloppy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like Keith can. He’s trapped, his body caged by Lance’s arms, his heart in full surrender the moment Lance spoke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith jostles one of his legs. "See, that's kinda hard to do when your legs are wrapped around mine like this."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance still has his eyes shut as he nuzzles his face against Keith's side. "Good. Stay."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I wasn't planning on leaving."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Liar. You moved."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Moving doesn't equate </span>
  <em>
    <span>getting up and leaving</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mhhm, sure does. Also." Lance cracks open an eye. Keith is glad to see the normal color, their deep-blue, not the reflection of some pretty magic trick. "Who uses words like </span>
  <em>
    <span>equate</span>
  </em>
  <span> this early? I'm certain that's some sort of crime."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah? If it is, does that mean you're going to punish me, your highness?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance snorts out a laugh. "You wish."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do I?" Keith drops a hand to the top of Lance's head, dragging his nails over his scalp, eliciting a dramatic display of rolling shivers and goosebumps. "Or do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The answering silence says it all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The easy way Lance tumbles over him, sitting firmly in his lap, does all sorts of things to Keith. Things Lance can feel through the press of their naked bodies. Things that, astonishingly, make Lance grin like a trickster god, his drowsiness forgotten.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know," Lance begins, hips corkscrewing, raising up on his knees </span>
  <em>
    <span>just enough</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it breaks the contact they share. “I wonder if maybe the answer is we </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, Keith entertains the thought of what will happen if Lance stays like he is, sitting on his knees over him, hands braced against his chest, thumbs moving endlessly over his skin, mapping the rising tempo of his heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he bucks up his hips, startling an unexpecting noise from Lance, and swaps their positions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that what you think, your highness,” he asks, grabbing his face. He holds Lance still as he leans forward, feeling each erratic breath gust past Lance’s open mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what? Not anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith grins and that settles that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They lose track of time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point during everything--and Keith shuts off the thought the moment he has it--someone brought them a basket, loaded with everything they may want for breakfast. Toast, sunny eggs, curls of bacon. Fruit and a decanter of water, another full of wine. Keith carries it all back to the bed, sets it out, Lance sitting there, watching him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I forgot I asked them to bring us food,” he admits, reaching over for an apple. “Whoops.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Acute embarrassment burns Keith’s face pink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they finally attack their breakfast, it's cold. Eggs are congealed. Bacon, wilty, fat rubbery between their teeth. Grease decorates the plates, and yet they still eat it, suddenly ravenous at the sight of all that food. They take turns feeding each other grapes from a gluttonous bundle for an excuse to touch the other's lips. They sample the food off the other's plate, though they were both given the exact same meal, down to the final crumb. They share the bottle of tart wine, forgoing glasses for the simple pleasure of drinking straight from the same bottle together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a surprise, there are sweet rolls for them both, buried at the very bottom of the basket. The fluffy bread drank down all the honey, fattened each one with sweetness that burst across their tongues. However, despite that, Keith's pleased there's just enough lingering on Lance's lips once they’re done eating for him to kiss off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> taste sweeter that way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance catches him smiling, and he traces the lines of it, upper lip, bottom lip, then again, his own mouth lifting to match. "Your favorite, right?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith laughs. "You have no idea."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Honestly, Keith thinks he does, because Lance rewards him with a flurry of kisses across his entire face. Little kisses, silly kisses, kisses meant to make Keith laugh again, which it does. Lance, as Keith has always known, excels in doing exactly what needs done to make Keith fall completely apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time the plates are as clean as they can make them--the grease remains, glossy and thick, for the kitchen aids to scrape off later--it’s sometime in the early afternoon. Commotion babbles, brook-like, down in the gardens, snippets of muted conversation, dog barks, and song rolls into the room on the back of an endless, warm breeze heaving in from the sea. Hearing life go on shatters the illusion the two of them have built a bit, steals the magic of their night together and forces them rather rudely back into reality. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point, they'll need to leave this chamber. Lance has princely duties to attend to. Keith has his training, his various responsibilities. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They exchange looks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For now, the two decide they have more pressing worries to indulge. Like getting dressed. Like striping the sheets off the bed. Like cleaning up the glass from the floor, which Keith does as Lance watches him from the bed, a soft flush coloring his throat whenever Keith glances back to ask him a question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hesitates when he sees him. "What?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fingers twine in the thin chains looped around Lance's neck. Keith has a distinct memory of grabbing them--the links shining blue, not gold, from the firelight--and pulling Lance down to him for another desperate kiss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance drops his hand. The chains sway, heavy with their stones. "Nothing. Sorry. What were you saying?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Keith a second to remember, as distracted as he is with Lance collarbones. "Uh. . .oh. I asked what we had to do today." A quizzical look crosses Lance's face, clearly at a loss at why Keith needs to know. "You don't remember, do you? At--when--well. . .</span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you were muttering to yourself about wishing we could stay in bed all day. I asked you about it then, what you meant, but I don't think you heard me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a mighty huff, Lance flops back across the bed. Goodbye collarbones and smooth, toned stomach. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hello</span>
  </em>
  <span> several inches of bare calves peeking out from beneath the drop sheet Lance uses to cover himself..</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're right. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> remember any of that, but it definitely sounds like something I'd say. If you remember, I mentioned it when we saw Allura last night, about how we came up with a plan. Well, a plan of </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorts</span>
  </em>
  <span>. More like an </span>
  <em>
    <span>idea</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a plan, if that makes any sense, to. . .I don't know, repay her. For everything. For. . . ."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Saving your life," Keith supplies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No." Lance pushes himself up on his elbows. His eyes dazzle in the afternoon light. Actually, all of him does, from his hair to every bit of gold that shines against his skin. Keith almost looks away, the urge second-nature, but then remembers the night before and realizes he doesn’t have to. "For keeping me alive, yes, but she didn't save my life, Keith, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> did."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If that's true, then it's my fault you were. . .that you got sick in the first place." He frowns, sweeps the glass up in a tidy, little pile and discards it somewhere they won't slice their feet by accident. In a single day, they've destroyed so many glass bottles it seems apt they'll start seeking revenge against him and Lance pretty soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind him, the sheets sigh. The mattress, plush with down, doesn't make a sound. But Keith knows the moment Lance stands up, so sure of it he waits for the touch that does, eventually, coast up his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You think that’s your fault?" A pressure falls against Keith's shoulder, and he pictures Lance's cheek pressed to his skin, the tender frown haunting those fine lips. He wants to turn and see. He wants to, and doesn't. "If it's anyone's fault, Keith, it's mine."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith scoffs. How like Lance to shoulder the blame onto himself. "And how's that? We both felt the same for each other all this time. No one could've anticipated it would turn out like it did."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And what would have happened if magic didn’t intervene? If their mutual affection didn’t root and blossom as it did? Where would Lance be now? Where would he have been the night before, the weeks before? </span>
  <em>
    <span>With Allura</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there’s no doubt. Driven by obligation, Lance would have done all that was required of him in the artful game of courtship, the dances, the quiet afternoon teas in the garden, the trips to Allura’s homeland, Altea, so they could repeat the same processes there. And Keith, forced in watching Lance grow further and further away, until he’s a King in an alien city, and Keith’s standing against a new wall behind a new throne watching this new man with a familiar face rule a kingdom he was never intended for.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith’s never loved magic, never cared for it. But in that moment, with Lance pressed against his back, naked skin against naked skin, Keith aches with a sick sense of gratitude.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No. . .I guess that's true,” Lance murmurs against his shoulderblade, “but I could've. . .I </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> have said something, when I first realized how I felt. But I didn't. I didn't and I thought you'd never. . ." His sigh rolls over Keith's skin. "We wasted so much time."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few years worth, no doubt. And now he wonders exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> it happened, if it was around the same time Keith realized what it meant when his stomach filled with warmth whenever Lance so much as glanced his way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he asks, because he suddenly needs to know, and because Lance is still pressed against him, weight nestled against his spine. "When was it? For you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, all Keith hears are the noises the castle makes day by day, the same low song of bustle just outside the door. If he strains, Keith can even hear the crash of the sea, that gentle hiss that Lance feels thrum through his entire body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, Lance slides his hand around his hip, and he traces the cord of scar tissue slashed across his stomach. Keith holds his breath. Lance must feel him tense, because he slowly moves his hand away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith presses his hand against his before he has the chance. ". . .will you tell me? What happened that night?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he finally speaks, Lance's voice is tight. ". . .all of it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That you're comfortable telling. I won't. . .if you don't want to, Lance, you don't have--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No," Lance cuts in. His thumb draws over the scar again, from one point to the other, mapping it out beneath his gentle attention. "I'll tell you. It. . .I shouldn't have kept it a secret to start with."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why did you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance sighs, the sound warm and full of something, a type of sadness Keith can't give a proper name to. "Because that's when it started. Or when I realized that I. . .that you meant a lot to me. Maybe that's why I. . . ."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith turns around suddenly in Lance's arms, catching the subtle jump of surprise drawing up Lance's shoulders. His eyes, Keith realizes, are shining wet with unshed tears. "If it's too much, you don't have to continue. I get it. That's around the time I realized it, too. Couldn't you tell how excited I was to sneak out with you, that you asked me first?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance crumples. ". . .I know. Why do you think I made a big fuss about it? I suspected your feelings were mutual, but I was too much of a coward to ask. I guess I never grew out of that, huh?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Does it matter? Look at where we ended up despite everything. It worked out, Lance. Somehow, it all worked out."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance's hand returns to Keith's scar, the heat radiating off his palm jolting straight up Keith's spine. "But it nearly didn't. Because of me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith doesn't say anything to that. There isn't any point. They both know that he'd do it again, in half the time it took for either of their hearts to beat. He swore oaths, and even if it hadn't, Keith would always stand in the way of anything that tried to harm him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if he plucked the thought from his mind, Lance glances up. The touch at his side grows firm, digs in deep enough Keith feels a shiver of phantom pain rolling up his stomach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I really thought you were going to die. When you were--</span>
  <em>
    <span>gods</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Keith, there was so much blood, I-I screamed for what felt like hours before someone heard me and came and helped." Lance grit his teeth, and drew in a long, heavy breath he held captive in his lungs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith couldn't bear it, watching the pain take him again. He hated that he asked. He'd rather go his whole life never knowing what happened that night than see Lance break apart like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drew Lance into him, one hand resting firmly on his lower back, the other cupping the back of his head, fingers buried in his hair. "Lance, you don't have to do this. I shouldn't have asked, I'm--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right. You were right. You need to know. The men--do you remember them? The one--the guy who stabbed you, he. . .when you dropped, he came at me and I didn't think--it just happened. Like--like I could </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, at my back, telling me it was there, and I just. . .I begged for it to help me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith went still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In Treska, Marin told him that everything has a source, a starting point, an origin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The source of day is dawn, and the source of night is dusk</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance buried his face in his hands, his trembling confessing what Keith had long suspected:  "I begged, and the river grabbed him, and I held it over him until he stopped moving." He sucks in a shaking breath, looking at Keith suddenly. "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, Keith, and you know what? I’d do it again. I'd do it every time without question."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The years of deflection, the nights of tight silence, every pinched look and grimace whenever Lance glanced at the place the scar lay hidden, tucked beneath layers of leather and chainmail and the distance of time. He'd killed a man. Crushed the river over his head until he no longer moved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All because the man buried his knife in Keith's stomach and left him to die.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was the source of Lance's water magic:  His desperation to save them. To save </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keith.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It all makes sense. And now that it's all out in the open, Keith can't believe he missed it for so long. Lance gave him the truth the entire time, confessed it in the tireless way he ran off to the fountains or the riverside, any place he could tame this wild thing he carried:  The magic that answered him when he needed it most. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance backs away. His arms tighten around himself, squeezing and squeezing as his arms shake and shake. This, Keith realizes, is guilt made flesh. "You must think--"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What? I think what?” There’s nothing Keith can think of, nothing that justifies Lance’s implications. “Lance, </span>
  <em>
    <span>look at me</span>
  </em>
  <span>." With a jolt, Lance does. And how his eyes shine as the sea does, with salt and waves. "Hey. No. Never, Lance. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Never</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You saved my life. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Again.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You're always saving my life." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance mutely shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s nothing he has to prove it, only dreams and half-memories. And a scar, drawn deep in his side, a ridge of pink tissue Lance glances at again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You dressed my wounds,” Keith asks him softly, “didn’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Startled, Lance whispers, “You remember that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Barely. I thought I was dreaming.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I had to be sure. . .” Keith waits, but Lance falters, lips parted around words that won’t come. One hard blink dislodges the tears from his eyes, and they roll down his cheeks, diving off the point of his chin. “The healers did all they could, patched you up, worked some spells to prevent infection, but I didn’t believe it unless I saw it. You. . .didn’t wake up, not once, in an entire week. I thought you were going to die, no matter what the healers told me. No. . .no matter how I saw your wound get better myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lifts a hand and scrubs ruthlessly at his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith gently pulls his hands away. “But it </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> get better. See? I’m right here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance’s lower lip wobbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So that’s why they always fought over Keith’s decision becoming his guard. Keith isn’t stupid, he knows what it means, what the law expects him to do if the situation arises--and didn’t it once already? Lance was </span>
  <em>
    <span>dying</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Keith set off to find an impossible cure for an impossible illness, nearly dying himself in the process. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But like Lance, Keith is ready to do it again. He’d do whatever it took to keep Lance safe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gently, Keith cradles Lance’s face between his palms. Without having to ask, Lance steps into him, buries the sight of his face under his chin, tucking as close as possible. Keith curls his arms around his back, and holds him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds him as the wind picks up and lashes through the chamber, the curtains around the bed inflating, maps fluttering where they’re pinned against a table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds him until Lance’s tears stop, and he draws away, turning his red-rimmed eyes up, scanning Keith’s face for--what? Acceptance? Forgiveness? Love?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance has them all, if that’s all he needs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of it, more, anything and everything, Lance has it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith fumbles for a way to express that. There aren’t words enough, and if there are, they’re feeble and weak, not at all what Keith needs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he kisses him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Lance, after drawing in an uneven breath, returns it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re okay,” Keith whispers against Lance’s mouth. “No matter what, we’re okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Lance murmurs in reply. He rocks a step back, rubbing at his eyes again, groaning at himself. “Look at me. I thought I had enough time to get over it, but ha, I guess not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Death isn’t an easy thing to forget. Keith only knows it from the outside, not in the sense he witnessed his father’s death take place, just the aftermath of it. The consuming grief and fear that tailed him when he fled his house, not too young to know what it meant whenever strong men left behind debts, Keith understands that perfectly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But for all his oaths, Keith’s never killed someone before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s never been put in the situation, except the night at the Inn, same as Lance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It should’ve been him, carrying this weight, not Lance. Would he handle it better? Maybe. At least, Keith likes to think so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think it’s something you get over, just learn from.” Keith shifts his weight. “If it wasn’t him, Lance, then it’d have been me. Or you. Or both of us. There wasn’t any other way. If I hadn’t lost my focus, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d</span>
  </em>
  <span> have killed him.” Lance starts, stiffening where he stands, only a step away. “I mean that. And if I had? I’d be saying the same thing as you:  I would do it again. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> do it, if it comes to that, and not because I swore some oaths to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith watches Lance’s throat bob as he swallows, hard. “. . . I know that.  That’s why I never wanted you to take that burden on yourself. I want you to be safe, not throw yourself into unnecessary risks for my sake. And yet, here we are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last part comes out bitterly. Old arguments for old things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here we are,” Keith agrees, albeit without the same infliction. “You know, this was my way of doing the same for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance huffs out a breath. “I do know. Some weird repayment for--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. No, not that. I thought that it was the only way to stay close to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Golden light streams across the floors, warming the tile pleasantly under their bare feet. Veins of true gold glitter in the marble when the sunshine hits it just right. Keith’s always found it beautiful--beautiful and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fitting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as everything of Lance’s, somehow, is touched with gold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance shakes his head. “That’s why you fought me so hard over it? Because you thought. . .what did you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything in my life has been taken from me. My mother, my father, my home. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have lost my hands or my life that day in the markets. It made sense that, after a matter of time, I’d lose you, too. I always lost the things I loved most.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If not for his oaths, his promotion, a childhood friend can only accompany a prince so far. Without lands or a title, Keith’s useless in the eye of the court, dead weight fattened by Portain taxes and a prince’s pity. But if he stands by Lance’s side, dressed in his dark leather uniform, then the picture makes a little more sense, is a little more agreeable. And legally, no one can find an excuse to pitch the Market Town orphan off to Veer for border patrol, or into war, if it comes to that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a way, Lance isn’t entirely wrong, but he also isn’t entirely right, either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Going on how Lance shakes his head, Keith thinks, at least, he might understand it a little better. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe not you, but someone else might have. Portia always needs another recruit,” he says somberly, thinking of the fresh batch he saw Shiro lead into the training grounds yesterday morning, all nerves and misplaced pride. He was the same as them, once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance scowls and puffs out his cheeks. If the moment had been lighter, Keith would have laughed at the silly face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, the truth of Keith’s statement hangs over their heads as they silently break away to finish tidying the room. Servants would see to the rumpled sheets and empty plates, the dirty clothes, but Keith itches for something to do after he pulled on his armor. The weight comforts him, but none more than the heft of his dagger snug against his hip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While he cleans, Lance hides away in his bath chamber. The moment he vanishes from view, takes the first step beyond the door, Keith’s throat blotches pink as he recalls the hushed confessions Lance kissed across his face about why he liked to take his time during his baths.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Keith finishes, so has Lance, and both of their moods significantly lift.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dressed in a flowy tunic and matching pants, Lance draws up beside Keith, idly watching a smattering of clouds chase each other across the sky. The temperature--climbing as the sun does, higher and higher--heats the lazy wind slipping into the room. Keith regrets pulling on his armor already.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was thinking about what you said,” Lance says as Keith glances over. He stands close, fiddling with one of his several rings. “About being afraid of losing me and all that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith tilts his head. “And,” he prompts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And. . .I thought of this.” Lance slips off the ring. It’s plain, just a band of hammered gold, nothing else. He holds it out to him. Reluctantly, Keith reaches for it, and when his hand is near, Lance grabs his wrist, holding him still as he slips the ring over one of Keith’s fingers. “There. Now wherever you go, you can carry me with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s it, the moment Keith knows he never wants to be with anyone else for as long as he lives. While struggling with his own resurfaced grief, Lance worried over </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keith’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> anxieties before his own, and found a perfect solution. A ring is nothing, a bit of flash against his skin, but it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span> from Lance’s hand, from the bath water and all his mulling thoughts. It’s part of him that’s now a part of Keith. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It, in a way, feels like something bigger than that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope that doesn’t mean you plan on sending me away sometime soon.” Keith says it jokingly, but he’s also incredibly touched. He can tell by the tender look on Lance’s face which one won out in his voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> lucky.” When he laughs, Keith rocks his shoulder against his, and presses a kiss into Lance’s wet hair. “Hey! Don’t press it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would never.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hooks his arm around Lance’s shoulders and draws him in, and for a long, long time, they stand together, watching the sky go from blue to gray to stormy black. Thunder mutters intelligibly in the distance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re late for their duties, and both of them know it. And yet, they stand there for several more minutes, waiting for the rain to fall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it does, finally, hitting the balcony with driving fists. They shuffle back, further into the room, to avoid it, Lance rolling his eyes at Keith’s sudden recoil. But of course he would. He’d only need to ask and the rain would spare his fine clothes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith’s always trailed after Lance, for almost as long as he can remember, desperate to be close to him and to keep him close. Maybe that’s why he’s reluctant to pull his arms away, even when they both know they have to go or someone will eventually come up here, looking for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All’s well,” Lance asks, as often does, the barest hint of worry creeping into his tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or maybe Keith’s finally willing to admit that he wants something purely for wanting it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Keith replies, more sure of this than anything else in his life. “All’s as it should be.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Whew! There we go! The end of my little--well, "little"--indulgent Klance fic. All of your feedback and kudos mean the world to me, thank you everyone for taking a few minutes (hours?) out of your day to read my story!! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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